


To the Ends of the Earth

by wheel_pen



Series: Magnus and Bay [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), To the Ends of the Earth - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cosmic Partners (wheel_pen), Daisy (wheel_pen), F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9166798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: In the early 1800s, sheltered young aristocrat Edmund Talbot travels from England to Australia via ship to take up a post in the government arranged for him by his godfather. However, unbeknownst to himself, Edmund has a secret identity and powers that need to be unlocked, as Magnus. This duty falls to Daisy, his magical traveling companion and protector, and to Dr. John Watson, ship’s surgeon, aka his cosmic partner Bay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

 

Daisy called at the side entrance to the great house, where tradesmen came, and servants from other houses. She knew this was the convention of the day and it didn’t bother her. Well, some conventions of the day _did_ bother her, really, but she simply smiled and let them flow around her. There was no sense in being outraged by the things she had, in a sense, volunteered for; and so much satisfaction in playing her part to perfection, knowing she had powers beyond what anyone she encountered could comprehend. Such as the cook, who looked at her askance on the doorstep and barely deigned to take the card from her, which proved she had an appointment with His Lordship. Daisy just smiled, and entered the kitchen when bid.

She took off her hat but left her gloves on, and the little coat that covered her otherwise fashionably low neckline. A maid escorted her silently through a grand hall, which Daisy gazed up at without shame. She could live like this whenever she wanted; but she liked a bit of adventure now and then. Sometimes it was necessary to catch the quarry she wanted most.

The maid rapped on a door and was allowed to enter, leading Daisy into a grand library stretching two stories tall. The books buzzed and hummed in her perception, filling her with energy and, admittedly, a certain amount of greed. She wanted to gobble them all down, stuff herself with them and suck them dry. The imagery amused her and she found herself smiling pleasantly as she faced the man behind the huge desk at the center of the room, even though he was obviously a very serious man who didn’t hold with the frivolity of smiling.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, and curtsied somewhat.

He glanced up at her, then did a double-take—something few people probably had the privilege of witnessing—then frowned even more than he already had been. “Margaret Fortescue?” he asked sharply.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she confirmed. “I go by Daisy.”

He shook his head and took a breath as though he didn’t know what the world was coming to, then went back to the letter he’d been writing. Daisy waited patiently, her eyes roaming the shelves of books, alighting on various titles eagerly. After a moment the Duke signed his letter with a flourish that Daisy felt she was meant to notice. He shook sand over the ink to dry it, then dumped this off into a tray and folded the heavy paper. He dripped red wax from a candle onto it and sealed it with the heavy signet ring he wore. This important and dignified business concluded, he looked back up at Daisy.

“These are orders to the Governor of Sydney,” he told her solemnly, “authorizing that my godson be appointed Deputy Commissioner.”

“You have great faith in his abilities, Your Grace,” Daisy commented politely.

“Yes,” he agreed, though with slight reluctance. “He’s a very intelligent lad, well-educated, honorable. Perhaps… not the most sensible all the time,” he admitted. “Hasn’t seen much of the world.”

“You supply the voyage, Your Grace,” Daisy replied knowingly, “and I will supply the sense.”

The Duke nodded, gazing at her assessingly. Daisy was unperturbed. “You come very highly recommended,” he noted. “You’re not quite what I was expecting.”

Daisy smiled, understanding what he meant. It was a tactful way to put it. “Granted, I stand out somewhat,” she conceded, with her dark skin and hair. “It does not impede my work.”

“You’ve been on ships before?” he quizzed.

“Yes, I accompanied Lady Parkhurst’s daughter to India,” Daisy informed him. “I’ve also been to the American colonies and many points around the Mediterranean.”

“Never Australia?”

“No. I look forward to it.”

The Duke was silent for a moment, then frowned. “Didn’t realize Lady Parkhurst had a daughter,” he commented.

“I beg your pardon, she is Lady Bathgate now.” Daisy let this sink in as he realized that Cynthia Parkhurst, now Lady Bathgate, was not much younger than he was, and long ago it was that she was an unmarried girl sailing to India. Then he nodded slowly.

“Shall we discuss the particulars?” he asked in a business-like tone, leaning forward.

This change, from skepticism to belief, was always a gratifying one. But Daisy was not ready to sign the contract yet. “I would like to meet him first,” she stated. “I must see if I am comfortable with him.”

“I’ve told you, he’s a fine, upstanding young man—“

Daisy did not interrupt the Duke, but let him stop himself when he saw her expression. “Nonetheless, I must judge for myself whether to take the commission.” She was _not_ a lowly merchant grateful for whatever scrap a nobleman might throw her way. She could pick and choose her jobs. Of course she had no intention of letting this job slip past her, but the Duke didn’t need to know that.

He seemed to find this acceptable in any case. “He’s out in the garden. I’ll have a servant—“ He reached for a bellpull and Daisy put up a hand to stop him.

“If you please, Your Grace, I would rather encounter him on my own.” The Duke made a gesture of allowance, and Daisy curtsied again, took two steps back, then turned and left the library, her heart panging to be away from all the books. She would be back among them soon enough. Now, as she approached the back door, her heart beat faster, but for a different reason.

She removed her gloves and coat, leaving them on a table. They would find their way back to her. Then she stepped out into the bright sunlight of the garden, threading her way through the cool hedges until she saw him.

Tall, of course. Hair slightly gingery in color. He walked with his hands behind his back and spine ramrod straight, as a proper gentleman should. His back was to her, but she knew he would be young, by certain standards—young to be a Deputy Commissioner, anyway. But he was upper-class and had lived a sheltered life, surrounded only by his own kind, which would make him seem younger as well.

Daisy slipped down the path on the other side of the hedge from him and came out ahead of him, slowing her walk to the pace of one also out enjoying the garden. She didn’t look at him, seemed not to notice him in fact, but made sure he was able to observe _her_ fully. Then she wobbled and fainted, or pretended to.

His response was gratifyingly immediate. “Miss? Miss!” She struggled not to react to his voice; it felt like a lifetime since she’d heard it last.

A shadow fell over her as he knelt in the grass beside her. “Miss?” He brushed a strand of hair out of her face but otherwise didn’t touch her—that would hardly be proper. “Brookings!” he shouted instead.

There was always a servant within shouting distance of a wealthy person. “Yes, sir?” said the butler, popping up.

Now that they were no longer alone, it was alright to touch her, given the urgent nature of the situation. “The lady has fainted,” he told the servant, carefully scooping Daisy up in his arms. “Fetch smelling salts and a brandy.”

“But sir—“

“Brookings! Now!”

The servant had not failed to note that this ‘lady’ was rather unusual in appearance, but the young master carried her purposefully anyway, commanding others with the arrogance of one who had always been obeyed. Daisy tried to stay limp in his arms—he obviously had little experience carrying women about, which was probably good overall, but her head wobbled at an uncomfortable angle. If she had really fainted she supposed it wouldn’t matter to her. After a moment shade passed over her face and she was set down on a hard surface—possibly a bench in the nearby gazebo.

Now what would he do? She would be rather disappointed if he used this moment to cop a feel, as they would one day say—it wouldn’t stop her from taking his commission, she’d just have to be sterner with him. But no, he was dabbing her face with a damp cloth, going no lower than the top of her throat. Daisy decided it was time to open her eyes.

His eyes blazed blue above her. “Don’t try to move,” he told her. “Just lie still. You must’ve been overcome by the heat.”

It was not really that hot. But why else would a lady faint? “Thank you,” Daisy told him. “You’re very kind.”

There was no spark of recognition in his eyes, which worried her. “Are you alright?” he wanted to know. “Did you hit your head?”

“I think I’m alright,” Daisy assured him. She started to sit up and he moved to help her, a strong arm behind her back and a large hand on hers.

Brookings reappeared with a small vial and a glass of brandy. “Sir—“ he began hesitantly, but the young man lifted the brandy from his hand and pressed it on Daisy.

“Here, drink this quickly,” he insisted. “It will help.”

Well, brandy _always_ helped, didn’t it? Daisy downed the glass, remembering to cough and sputter a bit afterwards as if she wasn’t used to it. The butler had brought her the cheap kind anyway, and narrowed his eyes at her as if he found her a charlatan. “Thank you,” Daisy repeated, wiping at her eyes.

He handed her his handkerchief. “Edmund Talbot,” he introduced, dismissing the butler with a wave of his hand.

“Daisy Fortescue,” she told him, letting him take her fingers briefly.

Her eyes roamed over his fine clothes—he had never known life without them, or without a servant who came and went at his whim. It could be a hard voyage for him, and Australia was hardly developed either. She tactfully ignored _his_ eyes roaming over _her_ , making his own assessment.

“Do you, er, work here, Miss Fortescue?” he asked her delicately.

“No,” she replied with a smile. “Do you, Mr. Talbot?”

Surprise crossed his face, and a smidge of offense, but he gallantly batted it away. “No, I’m here visiting my godfather.”

Daisy sat up a little more so she could face him better. “I’m also here visiting your godfather,” she revealed to him, keeping the slight smile on her face. “I know who you are, Edmund Talbot. And I know you’re going on a long journey soon.”

Daisy did not really _try_ to be mysterious. Okay, maybe a little bit. The secret, she found, was not riddles or spooky voices, but a confident air and a smile no one knew the reason for. “Yes, I’m going to Australia,” Edmund answered slowly, as if wondering how she could possibly have known.

“Your godfather has asked me to go with you,” Daisy informed him, watching his eyes widen. “As your servant, and bodyguard.”

“Oh. Really,” he answered with polite skepticism. Then he frowned. “Are you a—“

“We don’t like to say the word aloud,” Daisy warned him, which was a bit of nonsense.

“Oh. I beg your pardon,” he apologized politely. “But you can… perform magic?” Clearly he’d heard this rumored about society, but likely never met someone like Daisy before. Despite how people liked to talk, those with her abilities were extremely rare, and did not hire themselves out lightly.

“I can.” Daisy knew he wanted a demonstration—everyone always did, and she couldn’t really blame him, she seemed to this society someone who should be especially weak and powerless, barely above a child. She held out her hand for his, which he gave readily. “You stubbed your toe this morning,” she diagnosed with some amusement. “On a book that you fell asleep reading, which fell to the floor.” She could sense the stubbornness in him, the determination to keep reading even though his eyes were drooping shut.

“Mightn’t you have learned that from the servants?” Edmund asked delicately.

This did not offend Daisy. “You did swear in a rather loud, ungentlemanly fashion,” she reminded him with a smile. “I’ll fix it for you.”

People in this age just got used to live with aches and pains, even those considered young and healthy, and Daisy could tell the moment that he registered the lack of soreness in his foot. He blinked rapidly and his toes flexed in his stiff boot. Then he smiled at Daisy.

“Well, that _is_ remarkable,” he commented pleasantly. He was not exactly _impressed_ though. “Perhaps it was getting better on its own, though.” That was good breeding—to be excruciatingly tactful even when doubting her.

“Perhaps,” Daisy allowed. “Look down.”

Edmund did, and then wobbled in a very undignified way, long limbs flailing as he realized they were floating considerably above the seats in the gazebo. Daisy held tight to his hand and reached for the other one. “Calm yourself,” she advised in a soothing tone. “Put your feet down, like you’re standing.”

He did so, and could just barely brush the floor if he pointed his toes. Then he tucked his knees up experimentally, looking like he’d been caught in mid-jump. “Well that is _most_ remarkable,” he repeated, with upper-class understatement, but Daisy thought he got her point.

“Stand up,” she said, and lowered him onto his feet. It took her rather longer to reach the ground herself.

“Servant and bodyguard,” he repeated, now convinced she had the skills for it. “My godfather is most generous.”

Daisy let go of his hands. “Well, he hasn’t heard my terms yet,” she remarked lightly. “He may not agree.” Didn’t hurt to remind people that she was in charge of her own destiny here. “ _You_ may not agree, Mr. Talbot,” she added, with one of those smiles for no reason. With that she nodded her head at him and left him standing there in the gazebo—she was a servant, yes, but one who came and went at her _own_ whim, not anyone else’s.

Back inside she put her coat on again, knowing the Duke preferred modesty, but left her hands uncovered, the better to assess the situation. She could intuit many things just by ‘looking’ but touch could help sharpen the picture. She reentered the Duke’s library and this time he acknowledged her more quickly.

“You spoke to him, then.”

She imagined the butler had already been in tattling on her. “Yes, he is all that you promised,” she assured him. “Intelligent and honorable, but perhaps a bit naïve.” The Duke could hardly deny that. “I will take the commission.”

“Excellent,” he replied levelly, as if he hadn’t doubted this outcome for a moment. Of course not; he was a duke, and almost always got what he wanted. “What are your terms?”

From her wristlet Daisy pulled a contract which really should not have fit in there and presented it to him. “I will see him safely to Australia, and I reserve the right to stay with him longer, by mutual consent,” she explained in a businesslike tone. She somehow didn’t think the Duke would like the plan she had in mind for his godson, no, not at all, but maybe in Australia they would have a little more breathing room. “He will not be permanently harmed or disfigured by any injury, illness, or deprivation, though there may be some suffering, especially if he is stubborn,” she added dryly.

“Builds character,” the Duke snorted without concern, squinting at the contract. “How much?”

He meant money. “No cash,” Daisy said, which made him glance up in surprise. “I would like to look around your library,” she told him speculatively, “and have as my own such books as we might agree upon.”

“Yes, I heard you liked books,” the Duke replied, as if he found this rather peculiar. He was sitting in a magnificent library of his own, but it was possible the collection was more about monetary value, or prestige, than the pursuit of knowledge and enjoyment. Daisy was confident she could make an advantageous deal in that environment.

“One other point,” she noted. “I will need to be part of his household for at least a week prior to departure, to acclimate to his habits. There is also the matter of sealing the contract.”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. He was no fool and had researched the matter thoroughly. “Blood exchange? Bit barbaric, isn’t it?”

Daisy smiled at him. “Well personally I prefer the… intimate relations method,” she explained delicately. “Only if he is amenable, of course. I would not want to start our relationship with any coercion.”

The Duke snorted again, unable to imagine how a young woman would coerce a man into being intimate with her against his will. It was like being afraid you would outrace your horse on foot.

“I doubt he’ll object,” he replied succinctly. This was an era in which young men were expected to sow a few wild oats—with women of lower social standing, and some discretion—before settling down with an appropriately chaste and suitably well-born young woman. Yet naturally, no one thought very highly of the women they had such flings with. As far as the society’s gender politics went, Daisy found this one of the _less_ odious rules, which told you something right there. She actively positioned herself as outside the usual categories—like the alcohol a teetotaler sipped for medicinal purposes.

“Good,” Daisy replied simply. She gazed purposefully around the library. “Shall we begin?”

**

Later that evening, Edmund slipped into his godfather’s study, as the Duke knew he would. He was too intelligent not to have questions. “Your Grace,” he began after being acknowledged and engaging in the usual pleasantries, “I met a curious young woman in the garden today.”

“I suppose that’s one word for her,” the Duke replied, allowing him to sit. “Did she explain herself?”

Edmund was remembering hovering several feet above the ground, and also how normal his black-and-blue toe looked when he’d checked. “She said she was to be my servant and bodyguard on the voyage,” he described. “Due to her… magical abilities.”

“Exactly,” the Duke agreed. “Her kind are rare and hard to persuade. But no one’s ever been lost when they were attended on a voyage by one of them.”

“You are most generous to arrange it,” Edmund told him quickly, which the Duke acknowledged. “But, sir, is it really entirely… proper?”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

As a gentleman, Edmund danced around the subject. “I understand quarters aboard the ship can be rather close,” he said leadingly. “And she _is_ a rather young girl…”

The Duke snorted. “She only _looks_ like a young girl. And a dark one at that,” he replied bluntly. “But she’s been around long enough to see more than you or I have got, that’s for certain.” He waved this concern off. “Others may look askance, ‘tis true, though as you say on a ship quarters are close and people learn to mind their own business.” The Duke was an old hand at ships, though his godson was a novice.

Edmund nodded dutifully, though the Duke could see he was not entirely at ease with the idea. He was confident this Daisy would prove her worth once they got underway, however, between the treacherous seas and the hostilities with the French. “She’ll be joining your household staff next week, to get used to things,” the Duke added. “And the contract has to be sealed, to bind her to you for its duration.”

The way he said this made Edmund sit up more alertly. “Sealed, sir?”

“These pagan magical folk have their customs,” the Duke said dismissively, as if it was a mere trifle. “When she joins your household you should take her to bed.”

He was amused by the slight widening of Edmund’s eyes, which he tried to conceal. “Sir?”

“Come, you’ve bedded a lass before, haven’t you?” the Duke admonished lightly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And this one is pretty enough, despite her color, don’t you think?”

Edmund thought back to her deep brown eyes, angelic features, skin an exotic chocolate shade he’d rarely seen and never up close. There was a distinct pause before he remembered he was supposed to answer a question. “Yes, sir.”

The Duke, being a man of the world, did not fail to notice his reaction or its meaning and smirked a bit, conspiratorially. “Then it will hardly be a chore for you,” he concluded. “And it will seal the contract. Which is necessary,” he added sternly. He decided not to mention that there were alternative methods.

“Yes, sir,” Edmund replied quickly, obediently. “Will it be required just the once, or…?” he inquired slowly.

The Duke rolled his eyes, thinking he’d made this point already. “Once to seal the contract, and then afterwards as you like,” he replied gruffly. What was so difficult about this concept? In his younger days no saucy serving wench had been safe from the Duke, and he didn’t even get magical protection from it—just the opposite, in fact. “Consider it a bonus.” Edmund nodded quickly, sensing his displeasure. “You’d be wise to listen to her advice as well,” the Duke went on. “On seafaring matters and so forth. It may be galling but she does have considerably greater experience in those matters. You’d be a fool to ignore her.” Though he expected his godson to survive the voyage no matter what—that was in the contract.

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, you may go,” the Duke dismissed, and Edmund left his library quickly. Somehow the grand old man always made him feel like a child, who could do nothing but bob his head and answer ‘yes, sir’ to everything. It was appropriately respectful, he supposed as he made his way to his chamber, but hardly indicative of the strength of character necessary for a Deputy Commissioner, making difficult decisions, commanding others to carry them out.

This was an unusual relationship his godfather had set up for him, and he just wanted to know more about what was expected—was she Daisy, or Miss Fortescue? ‘Miss Fortescue’ did seem a bit formal if they were supposed to be intimate. Edmund was no stranger to a tumble with a dairy maid or a governess of lax morals (pity her charges!), but Daisy seemed like a different creature altogether. And he’d never had an… ongoing arrangement with anyone before. Some of his friends could be a little cruel, he sometimes felt, charming girls with lies and laughing at them later—it didn’t really seem proper. But then there were a lot of things that one authority said was bad, and another authority said was fine—drinking, fornicating, dueling, and using magic all came to mind rather quickly, for example. So it was difficult to know how to behave as a gentleman should, even though you’d think after all these years, and so many excellent tutors and role models, he would have perfected it.

To be honest Edmund had some anxieties about this voyage, and the post he was traveling to. He was certain this was _not_ gentlemanly, and alternatively tried to stuff them away and reason himself out of them. Neither approach worked completely. And now he would have one more confusing factor to deal with, who was supposed to be a help. Edmund sighed and reached for his book, reminding himself firmly to be less of a worrier.

**

In another part of town, after dark, Daisy moved through the streets in a large cloak that concealed her from curious eyes. She was in one of the rougher parts of town, with an alehouse on every corner and drunks and ruffians loitering in the shadows. She wasn’t afraid, though; why should she be? No one would bother her. And no one did.

She ducked into a small alehouse, the air warm and slightly sour, and threaded her way through the crowd to the back, as though she was gliding through water and emerging still dry. Sometimes she didn’t know how ordinary people could stand to live in this world, without her abilities—and of course, many didn’t. Half the people in this room would be dead in five years’ time.

The man at the corner table was unlikely to be one of them, though. He looked up as he sensed her approach, then caught the eye of a serving girl and ordered another mug of ale and a bowl of stew. Slightly different from the fare they’d been preparing in the Duke’s kitchen.

They did not need to greet each other. “Did you get the contract?” John asked, as if there was any doubt.

“Yes,” Daisy assured him. “And some very good books as well. The Duke is not much of a reader.”

“And did you see him?”

Daisy sampled her stew, automatically converting it to something nutritious and tasty, which it was not originally. “I did,” she promised John. She would not leave him begging for details, when he had waited so long. “He didn’t recognize me.”

“You’re sure?” He didn’t really doubt her; there had to be _some_ reason Edmund Talbot hadn’t found them on his own. “He’s not too young, is he?”

Daisy shook her head. “My guess would be childhood head injury,” she assessed.

“G-d, not again.”

Daisy shrugged; the world was a brutal place, even for those of privilege. “He is polite and honorable, though also naïve and a bit stubborn,” she added thoughtfully.

John frowned. “Really?” That didn’t sound like the person he was expecting.

Daisy smirked slightly. “Oh, the arrogance is still there,” she assured him, and this made John relax. “To the manor born. But definitely a kinder, gentler Magnus this time around.”

“Well _that_ should be interesting,” John commented, knocking back his ale.

“I assume you got your commission?”

“Oh yes. Chief surgeon aboard the _Dauntless_ ,” he reported. “Seems their previous fellow just up and deserted.”

“How unfortunate.” Of course, fortune had nothing to do with it; they had carefully planned every detail. “I’m to join his household soon and seal the contract.”

Daisy said this matter-of-factly, but still noted the pang that crossed John’s face. This was not a society amenable to same-sex relations, and if Magnus wasn’t there to remember him, Edmund Talbot would certainly be opposed to the very notion. So Daisy would get to keep him close—that would be unconventional enough for this society—and John would have to watch from afar. Well, John Watson or Bay, depending on how you looked at it; Bay had more experience separating love from lust when it came to Magnus, but John had been living with forbidden longings for a while now, most of his mortal existence on this round.

After a moment he shrugged and drained the rest of his ale, and gave Daisy a rueful smile. “It’s all set, then,” he pronounced, with some satisfaction.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But it will be a difficult voyage. He may not be easy to manage.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” John claimed.

**

Daisy heard the sound through the thin cabin door and sighed. She wasn’t disgusted by such things—she’d hardly be a good companion if she was—but it didn’t bode well for Edmund’s voyage. She opened the door to see him perched precariously on his hammock, heaving the last little bit of breakfast into a bucket. He at least wiped his face off before looking up at her, skin pale.

“Oh sweetie,” she said sympathetically, embracing him. She was already working on calming his stomach. “We haven’t even left the harbor yet, you know.”

“Sorry, not feeling quite the thing,” Edmund replied in a slightly croaky tone, leaning comfortably against her chest.

She took advantage of the opportunity to run her hands through his hair. “Well, don’t worry, it won’t happen again,” she promised. Reluctantly she made him sit back up, then stripped the shirt from over his head. That one she would clean, probably using magic given the state of the laundry facilities. She gave him boiled water to rinse his mouth with, then pulled another shirt over him and encouraged him to lie back down in the hammock. He had been pliable and trusting right away, which was useful, though somehow it still indicated his natural arrogance—one trusted servants to take care of one, to trudge off with buckets of sick and clean up, with no complaints. That was their purpose, after all. Still, he wasn’t rude about it at least.

When she returned with the shirt and bucket clean, Edmund was still lying in the hammock, but now his eyes were open. “I feel remarkably better,” he noted.

“Good,” Daisy judged. “Can’t have you being sick the whole voyage.” Adeptly she climbed into the hammock to join him. It was a pleasantly cozy fit. “The steward wants me to stay in the hold with the lower-class passengers,” she went on, by way of explanation for where she’d been earlier.

“Do you have your own bunk there?”

Daisy did not have to look at him to know he was perfectly serious. “They don’t have bunks,” she pointed out neutrally. “They have a bit of space, mostly not even walls.” The lower-class passengers were crammed in like cattle, a seething mass of misery, and they’d barely started their voyage. She could feel their despair radiating outward and into her, energizing her and alleviating them a bit. Which was a nice side benefit, if you cared about that sort of thing.

“Oh.” Edmund had not really thought about the lower-class passengers before. Add that to the list of things he had not really thought about previously.

“I thought perhaps I could stay here instead,” Daisy suggested. “It’s better to be close.”

Edmund glanced around the tiny room. “It is certainly close in here,” he remarked, with some displeasure. “Are these really the best accommodations on board?” he wondered aloud. “It’s hard to believe.”

Daisy smiled against his chest. “The only room better is the captain’s,” she promised. “I’ve been to sea before. For a ship built to carry cannons, not people, this isn’t so bad.”

Edmund, to his credit, was usually willing to give another perspective some thought. “I suppose it is wise to be well-armed, should we meet the French,” he allowed. He had not really answered Daisy’s proposal, but from the way his arm draped about her, she assumed she was permitted to stay.

A knock on the thin door startled him and the first thing he did was glance uncertainly at Daisy. Understanding his concern, conventional though it was, she slipped from the hammock as he sat up. “Come in,” Edmund called, as Daisy arranged his things on the washstand.

The door opened. “Mr. Talbot? I’m John Watson, the ship’s surgeon.” John presented himself well, unlike some of the common sailors, and when he held out his hand Edmund took it immediately.

“How do you do, sir,” he returned.

“Fine, thank you. And yourself?” John could also exchange pointless pleasantries like the best aristocrat.

“Well, though I did have a bit of discomfort earlier,” Edmund replied frankly. “Hence my…” He seemed embarrassed to be caught without his full suit of clothes.

“Not at all,” John assured him. “Seasick? Do you want anything for that? Herbal tea helps sometimes.”

Edmund waved him off. “No, thank you, all settled now,” he promised. “This is my companion, Daisy,” he added, clearly uncertain about her exact social status.

John and Daisy had decided they would pretend to be unacquainted. “How do you do, Miss,” John said politely. “No seasickness for you?”

“No, I’m quite used to the sea,” she replied with a smile. “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

He nodded professionally. “I’m just checking on all the passengers,” he went on. “Please let me know if you have any trouble.”

“Yes, of course,” Edmund agreed. In this era doctors were, frankly, best avoided, as they could easily do more harm than good. And Edmund had Daisy, after all, whom he knew from the contract was supposed to keep him safe.

“Right, then. Nice to meet you.” John went on to the next cabin, having mostly succeeded in not staring longingly.

“He seems nice,” Daisy remarked idly.

“Yes, lovely manners for a ship’s surgeon,” Edmund agreed, in a backhanded compliment. He bounced off his hammock, feeling energized, and started to tuck his shirt in. “Think I’ll go—what do they call it?—topside and introduce myself to the captain,” he declared.

Daisy expertly slid aside so he could check himself in the mirror without feeling crowded, and helped him put on his vest and jacket. “Shall I accompany you?” she asked, untying her apron.

Edmund turned to her with a regretful grimace. “Mmm, should you?” he questioned.

Unoffended, Daisy unfurled a delicate shawl to drape over her arms and a demure hat. “I think it would be alright,” she advised, and he smiled, pleased to have her at his side if it was really the done thing. Must do the done thing, of course.

They left the tiny cabin, properly attired, swaying slightly with the motion of the boat. “Pardon,” Edmund murmured when he bumped into her after an ungainly stumble.

“You’ll get used to it,” she predicted encouragingly.

They climbed the stairs to the outer deck, taking in lungfuls of fresh air and watching the land recede into the distance. Edmund stood at the rail a long moment, wondering over the fact that that was England behind him that he was leaving, for the first time, and quite possibly he would never see it again. The thought was thrilling, though he suspected he ought to feel melancholy. Then someone carelessly tossed a bucket of something foul-smelling over the side near him and the moment was, to put it mildly, lost.

He turned away from the sea view quickly and towards the upper deck, where a couple of finely-uniformed men were standing, perusing the work below. Edmund started to hop up the stairs but Daisy put a hand on his arm. “It’s better to wait for an invitation,” she advised him.

She could see this didn’t make sense to him. “An invitation?” He was used to going almost anywhere that he desired, when he desired it.

“Think of it as the captain’s front porch,” she suggested, with a smile.

“Ah. And how does one go about getting an invitation?” he wanted to know.

Daisy nodded at one of the officers. “That’s First Lieutenant Summers,” she explained. “Speak to him first.”

“From down here?” Daisy shrugged a little, but Edmund took it well, this idea of calling up to someone to ask for permission to come closer. “How do you know his name?”

“I read the manifest,” she pointed out, knowing he expected it to be more mysterious than that.

He flashed a grin at her, like he couldn’t help himself for a moment, and it took her breath away. “Are you coming?” he asked, walking closer to the point below the first lieutenant.

Daisy shook her head. “I’ll wait over here,” she promised, seeing John chatting to some other passengers who had come up on deck.

Edmund nodded, leaving her to her own devices—another nice feature of his—and turned to gaze up at the officer above him, holding his hat against a sudden sharp breeze. “Excuse me,” he began, and was ignored. “Mr. Summers!” He thought the man twitched a bit, but pointedly he did not look down. Edmund felt a flare of anger, sharp and bright at this effrontery, and struggled to keep it in check. From the other end of the ship Daisy and John both glanced over at him. “Excuse me, Mr. Summers!” Edmund repeated, allowing some irritation to creep in.

“I am extremely busy, sir,” the officer replied curtly, then finally gave Edmund a brief glance. “What do you want?”

Edmund had been warned that manners aboard ship were sometimes a bit rough. “I wish to speak to the captain,” he announced plainly.

“He is also extremely busy,” Mr. Summers stated, eyes roaming the deck again. “He will contact the cabin passengers when we have left the Channel.”

Edmund was beginning to find this disregard truly intolerable. With every other form of travel he’d experienced, the crew or help was at the disposal of the passengers, not the other way around. Then suddenly he felt lighter, as if it didn’t really matter so much, and he added pleasantly, “I just wanted to give him regards from my godfather, Lord Somerset!”

This brought a satisfying change to the man’s countenance as his eyes snapped back to Edmund. “Ah. You are Mr. Talbot, I presume?”

“The same.”

Mr. Summers glanced back over his shoulder with slight hesitation, as if trying to make a difficult decision. Edmund did not see anything so difficult about it. “Please, won’t you come up to the deck, sir?” Mr. Summers invited, his tone slightly warmer. “I will see if the captain is available.”

“Ah, wonderful.” This was more like what Edmund was accustomed to and he jaunted up to the top deck, thinking to himself how polite persistence—along with a dollop of name-dropping—could achieve one’s goals. He spied Daisy down below and waved to her cheerfully.

“He’s a bit mercurial,” John noted to her quietly.

“Magnus, struggling to break free,” she theorized. “We’ll have to watch that.” The momentary stab of fury, blindingly white-hot, did not feel very Edmund Talbot-like.

“What is this?!” snapped a gruff voice, and Edmund turned to see a man barreling out a set of doors just as Mr. Summers was going in. Edmund waited for the rude man to be chastised but instead Mr. Summers seemed to hop out of the way. “What is this man doing on my deck?!”

Edmund’s eyebrows rose as he realized, with some alarm, that this must be the captain, ill-mannered though he was. The things the Royal Navy was turning out these days.

“Sir, this is Mr. Talbot—“ Mr. Summers hurried to convey.

Edmund held out his hand. “Edmund Talbot, Captain Anderson,” he introduced politely, determined to overlook the man’s boorish behavior. It would be a very long voyage if he couldn’t do that, apparently. “My godfather, Lord Somerset, sends his regards.”

Captain Anderson gazed at him for just slightly too long, then reached out to take his hand, gathering his dignity back up about him. “Mr. Talbot,” he greeted. “We in the Royal Navy of course hold your godfather in high esteem.”

Which was only as it should be. “As do I, Captain. He has the utmost confidence in your ship and your crew,” Edmund claimed.

At this Captain Anderson smirked slightly. “Perhaps not the _utmost_ confidence,” he countered, with some amusement. Edmund looked at him questioningly. “That is your companion, is she not?” he went on, nodding over the rail towards Daisy. “Your witch?”

“They don’t like to use that term,” Edmund informed him, not sure where the captain was going with this. “I trust her presence is no hardship?”

“No more than any other passenger on a ship of war,” the captain replied, turning a bit grim. “Sailors can be quite superstitious, however.”

“Oh, Daisy can look after herself,” Edmund assured him.

“Of course.” He had the distinct impression the captain didn’t believe him, or didn’t believe in Daisy and her abilities. Well, let him scoff. Having seen what she could do so far, Edmund had confidence in her. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Talbot,” Captain Anderson went on. “I have many duties to attend to.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” Edmund agreed, recognizing the end of the audience.

“I am inviting the cabin passengers to dine in the lounge once we clear the Channel,” he added. “I hope I will see you there?”

“I very much look forward to it,” Edmund promised sincerely, and the captain nodded with finality.

Flush with success at his first shipboard contact—well, the steward and the surgeon didn’t count—Edmund descended to the main deck, where Daisy met him. “And how did you find Captain Anderson?” she asked with interest, taking his arm.

“Oh, a touch brusque,” Edmund understated, trying to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “Bit rough and tumble.”

Daisy smiled her knowing little smile. “We’ll be glad of that once we’re out at sea,” she predicted, “where the captain is the only law.”

“He knew about you,” Edmund added after a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh, I expect everyone does by now,” Daisy shrugged. She nodded at a sailor who turned away quickly. “It won’t be a problem.”

“I thought not—“ Edmund began confidently, but paused when he felt Daisy tense beside him.

“ _That_ will be a problem, though,” she murmured, looking back over her shoulder, and Edmund turned to see a dark-clothed man with frizzy white hair climbing up to the captain’s deck.

“Oh, I didn’t realize there was a parson on board,” he commented, wondering if such a person would cause trouble for Daisy. You could never tell with parsons. Edmund squeezed her hand supportively. “Is he—“

He was cut off this time by Captain Anderson yelling. “What is the meaning of this, sir?!” he bellowed at the parson. “How dare you come onto this deck uninvited!”

Clearly shaken, the parson stumbled backwards. “I only wanted to—“

“No one visits the captain’s deck without permission!” the captain shouted over the wind. Everyone on the deck was staring now.

“I didn’t know—“

“There are signs!” Anderson insisted. “Posted by the cabins in plain English!”

“Are there signs?” Edmund hissed at Daisy. He hadn’t noticed any. She nodded and he felt a touch of ice in his stomach—without Daisy to advise him (and his godfather’s name to drop), that could have been him up there, being humiliated in front of everyone.

The parson scrambled for some dignity. “Sir, I am a man of God—“

This was the wrong tactic. “A man of God has no place on a ship!” Anderson opined. “You will bring us bad luck, sir! Get off my deck!” He took a step towards the parson, who jerked away, tripped, and hit the deck hard, his hat and wig spilling off his head. “Go away!” Anderson repeated, his face red with fury. “Lieutenant Summers—“ With a resurgent survival instinct the parson scrambled down the stairs, hat and wig in hand, and disappeared below deck.

For a moment the silence was deafening. Then people began to get back to work, many whispering furtively among themselves. “That’s Mr. Crane,” Daisy informed Edmund. “His cabin is next to ours.”

This made Edmund grimace. “Really. Um, how will we—“ He had not failed to notice the thin walls of the cabins, through which many sounds could be heard.

Daisy smirked a little as she caught his meaning. “I’ll take care of it,” she promised.

Edmund stopped mid-stride. “What am I thinking?” he asked rhetorically, with disgust. “The man has been utterly shamed before everyone and I’m worried about—“

Daisy patted his hand, suspecting that was Magnus again. “It’s very disorienting, being on a ship for the first time,” she soothed. “You’ll get your bearings soon.”

**

Everything was wet, and cold, and miserable. Whenever the ship rocked, water poured across the cabin floor—nothing could be left there for fear of ruination. Surely that much water should not be coming into the ship? Daisy seemed to think it was alright. As did the steward and the first lieutenant.

Well, at least he wasn’t seasick, Edmund reflected, trying to be a little positive. He was sitting at the tiny desk in his cabin, writing in the journal his godfather had given him—spare no detail, the older man had said. Give me a true account of the voyage. Well, there were only so many words for _wet_.

Daisy breezed in and tsked him. “You should be in bed, it’s warmer there,” she pointed out.

“I cannot write in bed,” Edmund complained irritably. “Such bed as it is.” The hammock swayed far too much for a legible hand.

Unperturbed Daisy tucked the blanket around him more and kissed the top of his head. Immediately Edmund felt ashamed of his tone and captured her hand. “My apologies, my dear,” he sighed, kissing it. “I am afraid the novelty of sea travel is beginning to wear off.” The ship rocked again, and the only thing dry was his tone.

Daisy understood, though. She always understood. “How about some hot tea?” she offered.

He looked up with interest. “ _Is_ there hot tea?” he questioned. “The steward said the stove had gone out—“

“I can make hot tea,” Daisy promised. “In fact”—she leaned down to murmur enticingly in his ear—“I could even get you a hot bath.”

Edmund’s excitement grew in a manner he felt was a bit pathetic—what had his existence been reduced to, to be so thrilled about a hot bath? He would certainly be the cleanest person on the ship if he had one, though, by far—hygiene seemed to be one of the first things to go on a voyage like this.

“Yes?” Daisy prompted when he said nothing.

“Yes,” Edmund agreed hurriedly, pushing back from his desk. He would be sure to detail Daisy’s miracles later in his journal, so his godfather would know he’d gotten his money’s worth.

Daisy smiled. “Alright. Bring the tub in for me, would you?”

Edmund opened the door to the cabin and looked around, seeing the large metal tub placed innocently on the floor. “Where did this come from?” he asked, dragging it into the cabin. It was dashed heavy, even empty.

Daisy had somehow tied the hammock up so the tub could be put in its place. “I have my sources,” she claimed mysteriously.

Edmund looked down at the empty tub and resisted giving his blanket to Daisy. “It’s going to take a while to fill, isn’t it?” he asked. “What are you going to use for water?” He could feel himself overthinking, hesitating. “Fresh water perhaps ought to be saved for drinking—“ Even the captain gave only a few precious drops of non-saltwater to his beloved potted plants.

“You underestimate me,” Daisy told him indulgently, taking the blanket away and helping to unbutton his jacket. When Edmund next glanced at the tub, his jaw dropped in astonishment to see it filled with hot, steaming water. He turned to Daisy, but he knew from experience it was no good demanding explanations; she merely arched an eyebrow. Edmund decided the best response was to simply enjoy it, and he rapidly shed the rest of his clothes and eased himself, with many sighs, into the water.

“Well done, Daisy,” he complimented, leaning back in the tub. “Very well done.”

“We aim to please,” she assured him, putting his clothes safely out of the way. “Your tea.” She handed him the cup and saucer, and this time he didn’t bother wondering where it had come from.

**

Now the problem was the heat. A festering, sweltering, inescapable heat, with not a breath of wind to move them onward. It was perhaps the sailor’s worst nightmare, becalmed in the tropics.

“Edmund, you should not be wearing all those layers,” Daisy scolded. “We are inside your own cabin, take some off before you get sick.” Insistently she pulled him away from the writing desk to remove his jacket and vest, rolling her eyes at the foolish formality of gentlemen. The fact that he didn’t protest worried her more than anything. “Drink this,” she commanded, producing a cool glass of lemonade. Everyone was getting dehydrated stuck in this place. “Now lie down.” She joined him in the hammock, her body unnaturally cool against his.

“I am not one for the heat,” Edmund finally croaked, and Daisy smiled a little.

“No.”

“Is Australia very hot?”

“Inland there is a great desert,” she remembered. “But near the coast and in the mountains, it should be bearable.”

“You’re certain we’ll reach it?” He sounded rather pessimistic.

“You’ve been talking to the crew and the other passengers again,” Daisy tutted. “Letting their fears infect you. What have I said about that?”

“I’m only human,” Edmund shrugged. Making baths and healing minor wounds was all well and good, but how powerful was Daisy, really? “Is there nothing you cannot overcome?”

“Everyone has weak points,” Daisy promised, which was both comforting and not at the same time. “But it’s difficult for me to imagine encountering mine here.”

There was a knock on the door. “It’s me,” John said.

“Come in,” Daisy allowed, and he slipped inside the cabin, barely batting an eyelash at their position in the hammock. The thought passed through Edmund’s mind to sit up and be more presentable, but his heat-induced lethargy made that rather unappealing. The ship’s surgeon had in any case become something of a—well, perhaps not ‘friend’ but at least a familiar presence over the last few weeks, his manner inspiring a certain level of comfort. Important in a doctor, Edmund supposed.

John sat down easily in the desk chair. “Doing alright?” he asked them both.

“He’s not one for the heat,” Daisy replied for Edmund.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s much worse for others,” Edmund insisted. In his mind this was gentlemanly modesty; but of course, it was also true.

“Yes, below decks the lower-class passengers are in constant misery,” John explained matter-of-factly. “No deaths or spreading illnesses as yet, though.” That was the harsh reality of life in this time and place; in his compassion John alleviated what he could, without causing suspicion or going against his own conscience.

“Where are we?” Edmund wanted to know. “Are we moving at all?”

“Just north of the equator,” John answered. “When we cross it, there’ll be a ceremony on deck.” He made eye contact with Daisy. “Some pagan playacting. It’s traditional. But I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever see it,” he went on, “still as the winds are right now.”

“I think they’ll pick up soon,” Daisy commented, knowing that was why John had sought her out. “We need to continue our voyage.” It could be hard to decide sometimes when to intervene and when to let things follow a natural course. But drifting aimlessly through the ocean in a cramped, uncomfortable vessel was not how Daisy wanted to spend her time.

John nodded. “I’ll go check again,” he decided, standing. This meant he would go make it happen. “When we cross the equator,” he added at the door, “you may wish to skip the ceremony. I’ve heard it can get a bit wild.” Daisy nodded slowly.

That afternoon, to the delight of the crew, the wind finally picked up—not a gale, just a stiff breeze, which shoved them quickly to the lower half of the world.

It was easy to persuade Edmund to skip the equator-crossing ceremony. Curious though he was, he would more entranced by the idea of having less restrained sex with Daisy in their cabin while everyone else was on deck. Even thus enjoyably distracted, she could feel the power emanating from above them—diffused and scattered, but in opposition to her own. The foolish humans, playing with forces they didn’t understand—masquerading as Neptune, giving orders as the sea god, making proclamations, carrying trinkets whose true value they were ignorant of. Trinkets designed by more insightful humans to counteract otherworldly creatures whose intentions could not be trusted—like Daisy and John.

Afterwards, the mood on the ship was odd, with a mixture of light-heartedness and tension. On their morning walk across the deck Daisy slipped away from Edmund to seek out John and ask him what had happened.

He folded himself up tightly, glancing around to make sure no one would overhear. “It was bad,” he stated shortly. “I didn’t like witnessing it.” Daisy shook her head, not understanding. “The captain was dressed as Neptune, some people had real charms—“

“I sensed that,” Daisy assured him. “Foolish and ignorant.”

“Yes.” That was not all John had to say, though. “The parson, Crane—he was abused, perhaps driven mad—“

They were interrupted by a shout, and then to their horror the parson came dancing out across the deck, wearing only a shirt bunched around his thighs. He laughed and scampered hysterically, apparently drunk—then started urinating on whatever was nearby. One of the ladies from the cabins promptly fainted, while most of the sailors laughed uproariously and even piped a tune for him to wobble to.

“I see what you mean,” Daisy admitted, feeling a dark cloud over the afflicted man. The crew might have thought they were just playing with their chants and charms, but such things should not be trifled with; they had inflicted real damage on someone.

She saw Edmund talking earnestly to the captain, who had previously been watching the fracas inscrutably. At last Anderson barked an order and the unfortunate parson was escorted below. “I’ll be called to attend him,” John sighed, leaving Daisy.

Edmund joined her shortly thereafter, looking back at where Crane had been with disgust. “It’s shameful,” he muttered tensely, “shameful how they were just going to let him embarrass himself, become a laughingstock. And the captain was going to do nothing!” Daisy was mildly surprised, but pleased, to see Edmund taking the parson’s part. He might easily have been angry at Crane for his behavior—anyone might.

“It was most disturbing,” she agreed carefully.

“Alright, clearly he was drunk, which is not commendable, especially for a parson,” Edmund went on, “but, dash it all, who _hasn’t_ done something embarrassing after too much to drink?”

Daisy raised an eyebrow at him. “I would like to hear _your_ story on that count sometime,” she commented with interest.

Edmund flushed immediately. “Er, yes,” he deferred. “But, well, Anderson has never liked Crane, I think, but that’s no excuse for—“

Daisy turned him away suddenly, to shush him. He had a tendency to get a bit indiscreet when excited. “I believe he was treated poorly during the Neptune ceremony,” she murmured at him. “Further made an object of ridicule.”

“Well there you go,” Edmund concluded. “Probably tried to drown his humiliation in drink, and just made it worse.”

“That would make sense,” Daisy allowed. “Perhaps after some rest he’ll feel better.” She knew he wouldn’t, though.

**

Patrick the steward had prevailed upon Edmund to speak to the parson, who had taken to his bed with an unsociable frame of mind. When the steward opened the cabin door Edmund reeled at the stench—the parson had clearly not been making it to his chamber pot. “Are you sure he’s still alive?” Edmund hissed when Crane failed to respond to his entreaties.

“Oh, I think so,” Patrick replied. “He breathed on a mirror I put under his nose.”

“Well, send for the surgeon,” Edmund commanded.

“Do you think he’s ill?” Patrick worried.

Edmund certainly hoped so, with his behavior, but that seemed unkind to say out loud. “Well, I don’t know, I’m not the surgeon, am I?” he responded pointedly, and Patrick took the hint and scurried off. The steward seemed to exemplify the class of person who required instruction from his betters.

Edmund really didn’t want to stand there and wait, but it felt rude to just leave. “The surgeon will be here soon, Mr. Crane,” he said awkwardly. “I’ll let you rest until then.” With that he shut the door and went back to his own cabin, listening for the steward’s return.

“How is Mr. Crane?” Daisy asked him, sitting up in the hammock. Edmund was too distracted to try and spy where the book she’d been reading went when she no longer wanted it.

“Not well,” he admitted, keeping his voice low. “He would not respond in the slightest, though the steward says he’s still alive. I’ve sent for Mr. Watson.”

“Ah.” Daisy did not seem to think this would do much good, but offered no alternative.

“All relates to that Neptune ceremony, do you think?” Edmund suggested. He paced the small cabin—if it could be called pacing in such a space—clearly disturbed by the disordered behavior he had seen. Such things were not common in his world—disordered people were usually hidden away by their friends and relatives until they recovered.

“His time aboard ship has not gone smoothly,” Daisy agreed, understating.

“But one could bounce back from that,” Edmund insisted, mainly to himself. “There are always embarrassments in life, one must try to learn from them and come back stronger.”

Daisy stood and took his hands, stilling him. “Not everyone is as resilient as you, my dear,” she reminded him with a smile. Edmund, with the nervous energy of a young colt, frequently made social gaffes, or so he felt when he bemoaned them to Daisy later. But it was true, he got back up and kept on going with determination.

“Well, a parson ought to be,” he judged anyway. “They are entrusted with souls, they cannot let a few conflicts get them down.”

They heard footsteps in the hold outside, saving Daisy from having to answer. She followed Edmund out and made eye contact with John, who trailed the steward. She stayed well back from the parson’s cabin, feeling the cold energy emanating from it, to her worse than the smell. She had seen cursed men before and had no wish to see another.

John was not able to avoid it himself, doing the sort of rudimentary inspection expected these days. “How long has he been like this?” he asked the steward.

“Oh, about since that scene on the deck,” Patrick relayed. “You know, where he was dancing and—“

“Yes, I recall,” John interrupted shortly. “That long? Has he eaten or drunk anything since then?”

With all his weighty duties—not really, Edmund thought—Patrick had to consider this carefully. “He had a bit of broth the first day, sir,” he reported. “But after that he stopped eating, and responding.”

“That was two days ago,” Edmund pointed out in a chastising tone. “You ought to have said something before now.”

“Well, I didn’t want to disturb anyone,” the steward shrugged. What did he know of the ways of cabin-class passengers?

“What do you think, Mr. Watson?” Edmund finally pressed, when he couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. Daisy leaned in, interested to hear how John would spin it.

John leaned back pensively. “I think he is suffering,” he began slowly, “from a great melancholia.”

Everyone blinked. “That won’t spread, will it?” Patrick asked, starting to move away.

“No, Mr. Patrick, it will not,” John told him curtly, standing. “It is a disease of the mind.”

“One does not die of that, does one, Mr. Watson?” Edmund questioned, sounding slightly more familiar with the term.

“Well, one does if one doesn’t eat,” John noted. “He’ll need to be given food and water by hand, if he’s any chance at all, and kept clean.”

Eyes drifted to the steward. “Not in my job description!” he protested immediately. “I bring food, I empty chamber pots, I do not nurse!”

This was not unexpected. “I’ll see if there’s a woman in the hold who’d like to earn a few coins taking care of him,” John planned. He did not seem hopeful this would do much good.

“Mr. Watson.” Edmund caught his arm as he prepared to leave. “Allow me to supply the coins.”

John’s eyes darted to Daisy’s, then came back. _She_ hadn’t put the suggestion in him. “That would be much appreciated, Mr. Talbot,” he replied.

“Do you think he’ll recover?”

John glanced back at Mr. Crane and carefully shut his cabin door. “He may still be able to hear those around him,” he noted obliquely. “I’ll instruct the woman to be cheerful in her disposition.” Even Edmund was astute enough to realize that was a ‘no.’

**

Mr. Crane died three days later.

It was not the impromptu nurse’s fault; she did everything per John’s instructions, and irritated many of the cabin passengers with her endless upbeat singing. He simply did not have the will to live, John diagnosed.

Daisy could tell it bothered Edmund greatly; he was more sensitive than he liked to let on. She suspected it was his true nature realizing a great wrong had been done to an innocent person. Not that Magnus usually cared about such things; if anything, _he_ was usually the one committing such wrongs. But that was how he preferred it—in control, right or wrong. To see something harmful perpetuated by human ignorance and folly, with no greater guiding force—none of their kind could stomach it easily.

Then the captain asked for his help in an inquiry into Crane’s death, and Edmund found himself reading the man’s private journal for clues. Daisy was not sure why an inquiry was needed; John said it was because his death was ‘untidy,’ mysterious, and with a superstitious lot like sailors you wanted to have everything tied up neatly.

“The plot thickens,” John murmured to Daisy, keeping his voice low although they were alone in Edmund’s cabin. “They’re saying buggery was involved.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

John shrugged a little. “The rumor is that when Crane got drunk, he got a little too uninhibited with some like-minded crew,” he went on, “and once he realized all he’d done, he died of shame.”

Daisy did not know what to say to that. She sat there trying to think of something, but came up short. “Is it at all plausible?” she finally asked.

“Oh, I think he definitely had wandering eyes,” John judged. “McCallum is an absolute slut—the things that go on in the crew bunks are pretty disgusting,” he added with a grimace. Since Daisy knew he was not talking about basic homosexual acts, she was left to imagine what exactly was disgusting. Not that she really wanted to. “Of course, we know what was driving any despair he had,” he added significantly.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Do you know where the trinket is?”

“Belongs to the second lieutenant,” John reported. “A string of shells and beads he picked up on an island somewhere. He considers it a trifle, keeps it in his bunk.”

“Should we consider getting rid of it?” Daisy asked, knowing that consideration was already well underway.

John nodded slowly. “It would have to be done indirectly.” They couldn’t just steal it and toss it overboard. Or rather, that would make the situation infinitely worse. But it was too dangerous a thing to leave alone, especially now that it had tasted blood.

The ship swayed, and Daisy reached her hand down into the water that sloshed across the floor. She could feel the information it carried, that it brought from hundreds of miles away—not a direct message, but perhaps knowledge that could assist them. “I have an idea,” she told John.

**

Aboard a ship there were many worst nightmares. One felt the fragility of humanity in a ship, their utter helplessness in the foreign environment of the sea. Natural perils were enough to contend with; add manmade ones as well and people were certain to panic.

Edmund burst into the cabin, interrupting Daisy’s reading. “There’s a ship!” he announced breathlessly.

She imagined him scrambling down the steps to tell her as soon as word had been shouted down from the crow’s nest, and though she couldn’t feign surprise, she appreciated his excitement. “Well, that will be nice,” she commented.

Edmund blinked. “No, it’s—it could be the French!” he sputtered in alarm.

Mindful of the thin walls Daisy drew him inside and lowered her voice. “It’s not the French. It’s an English ship.”

“How do you know?” Edmund demanded thoughtlessly. Daisy gave him a look. “Sorry. But the _captain_ doesn’t know, he thinks it could be the French! They’re preparing the guns.”

It seemed like whenever Daisy _was_ surprised, it was always something bad. “Honestly, are they blind?” she hissed in irritation.

“Well, it _is_ rather hazy,” Edmund noted. “You don’t think there will be a battle?”

Daisy narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, I see. You’re _hoping_ for a battle,” she observed, trying not to sound too disdainful.

“Well, not a _big_ battle,” Edmund protested, as Daisy went back to the hammock. “Maybe just a brief exchange of fire…” He spoke with the anticipation of one who had never seen violence up close.

Daisy didn’t particularly mind violence. It could be very invigorating for her. Yet at the same time it was rather dull, humans wasting their energies on battle when they could be compiling knowledge or creating art. “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, then,” she told him.

“Oh. Hello.” John appeared at the door, clearly not expecting to find Edmund there. “The captain’s ordered all able-bodied men to the guns. The steward is showing people.” As well as guilting/cajoling them to attend this duty—with a threat like the French, even passengers were pressed into service.

“I’d better go,” Edmund said to Daisy, feeling like he’d offended her somehow.

“Okay. Try not to worry too much,” she added, a bit more warmly. She was certainly not worried at all.

John was, though, as he shut the door after Edmund and scooted closer to Daisy.

“It’s not the French.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s the English ship.” The one they were waiting for.

“Why does the captain think it’s the French?”

John seemed troubled by this and Daisy sat up to pay more attention to him. “I heard it was foggy…?”

He shrugged a little. “I suppose, but the officers seem suddenly rather fanatic,” he tried to describe. “You don’t think it could be…” Daisy looked at him. “…the charm?” he finally asked.

Daisy had not considered this. Rare was the difficulty _not_ caused by humanity’s cruelty, actually. She did not feel the need to speak right away, instead taking a moment to assess. “It’s possible it could be clouding men’s judgment, causing them to be more aggressive,” she allowed, “but not with any defined purposed. I don’t think it’s trying to thwart our plan,” she added, and though she was quite serious John smirked a little, as if he’d been foolish. “It merely illustrates the danger of keeping it aboard.”

John nodded, accepting her counsel. That was wise to do with Daisy. Then he stood. “Well, I’d better go prepare,” he announced. “There’s always injuries when passengers and cannons are put together.”

**

It was not the French, it was an English ship after all—the _Peerless_ , sailing out of the fog with a Captain Starkey at its head. And a visiting admiral as well, apparently with news that the war with the French was over. Daisy expected there would be celebrations and co-mingling of the crews and passengers, perhaps a dance.

Not for Edmund, though. “ _How_ did he manage to do this?” John asked in alarm, surveying the bloody head injury.

“He’s stubborn,” Daisy sighed. “And excitable.” They were in the passengers’ lounge, where Edmund had lurched once all the men were released from their defensive duties. His head was pillowed comfortably on Daisy’s chest and he was quite unaware of anything going on around him. “Apparently, he was knocked down first when the cannon was demonstrated,” she described, as John gently probed Edmund’s skull, “and when he got up he hit his head rather hard on a beam. But kept on going.”

John met her gaze with an expression of restrained disbelief. “This is, what, his third head injury since coming aboard?” he counted. “Is it possible to give _oneself_ the malicious head injury in youth?” The one that caused him to forget who he was.

Daisy smiled indulgently. “He has determination.” That was Magnus in him.

“More than sense,” John countered, which was also Magnus. “This one is rather serious,” he finally told Daisy. “It would be touch and go with someone else.” Of course Edmund would survive, there was no question of that. John frowned. “And now he’s resisting.”

Daisy slid her hand to the back of Edmund’s neck, hoping it soothed him. “Resisting?” That was _also_ Magnus, instinctively rejecting help. She added her power to John’s, gently, trying to heal the injury.

“We may have to let him struggle,” John admitted. “Pain, fever. He’ll be down for several days.”

“There could be advantages to that,” Daisy admitted. He would be out of the way while they were orchestrating the delicate, indirect influences needed to get the charm off the ship.

“Well, I don’t like to force him,” John said reluctantly. His fingers ghosted over Edmund’s ear, the only caress he would allow himself. It was more than clear such advances would not be welcomed in the current climate. “It would be better to let him heal on his own.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll clean it up, put a bandage on,” John decided, finally moving for his supplies. He swabbed the blood away with more care than any surgeon in this era normally showed. “He’s really—he’s quite heroic,” John blurted suddenly, and Daisy smiled indulgently.

“He’d love to hear you say that,” she replied.

John seemed a little sheepish about his outburst. “I mean—coming up on deck to help out in the storm—he didn’t have to do that.”

“Where he had no idea what he was doing, was hit on the head _again_ , and would have been washed overboard if not for you,” Daisy listed.

“He has courage,” John persisted, stitching the wound. They were not really arguing; but Daisy encouraged him to talk, because talking was all he could do about the other man. “Bravery. Injured this badly below decks, and he got back up and pressed on with his duties? That’s strength of character.”

Daisy tactfully did not point out that John had just been criticizing this same behavior. “He has a lot to learn,” she cautioned instead. “I can feel Magnus growing stronger. I think our presence helps.”

John finished applying the bandage. “I’ll help you take him downstairs,” he said, starting to get under his arm.

“Wait. Do you think we could wake him up?” Daisy questioned. “He’s very proud. He’d rather walk to his cabin, than be carried.”

John did not seem to find this a good reason to wake him, but he acceded to Daisy’s judgment. After a moment Edmund’s eyes fluttered open. First was confusion, then the pain hit and he sucked in a sharp breath, wobbling as he tried to sit up. “Easy there,” John cautioned, supporting him. “You’ve had a nasty injury.”

“Do you remember how you got it?” Daisy asked, stroking his cheek.

Edmund did; the memory was ignoble. “The cannon,” he sputtered. “The French—“ He made as if to stand and both John and Daisy pushed him back into the chair.

“There’s no French,” John assured him quickly. “It’s an English ship—“

“Oh yes,” Edmund replied. “I remember.” He glanced around. “I came here for something,” he puzzled. “Is it suppertime?”

John and Daisy shared a glance. “You’re a little disoriented, sweetie,” Daisy told him. “Can you walk? Let’s get you to bed.”

“An English ship,” Edmund muttered speculatively as he wobbled upright. Daisy slid under his arm, managing to look like she wasn’t giving him much support at all. “Oh, the war is over.”

“Yes, that’s right,” John agreed, getting the door for them.

“Are we having a party?” Edmund inquired as the three of them navigated the hallways and stairs. “I’m quite a good dancer. So I’m told,” he added modestly.

“I think we’ll have a private party,” Daisy countered, as John caught Edmund’s head before he could whack it on a lantern. “Just the two of us. Perhaps John would join us.”

“Oh, gladly,” John claimed.

“Do you play the fiddle?” Edmund inquired. “I play the violin. Wait, no, I don’t,” he corrected sharply, and Daisy and John made eye contact. “Do I? I don’t think I do. But I remember…”

“It’s alright, sweetie, don’t worry about it,” Daisy advised soothingly. “You’ll feel better once you’ve rested.”

They deposited Edmund in the hammock as gently as they could. “I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere,” John admitted reluctantly. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“No, we’ll be alright,” Daisy promised.

John nodded. “I’ll check on you later.”

After he left Daisy sat in the chair facing the hammock, watching Edmund struggle to keep his eyes open. “Go to sleep, my love,” she encouraged him. “I’ll be right here.”

“Everything’s done?” he asked insistently. “Isn’t there somewhere I should—“

He started to sit up and Daisy gently pushed him back down. “No, my love,” she soothed. “It’s all done. There’s nowhere you should be. Your duty is finished.”

She wasn’t sure if he really believed her or not, but sleep eventually overtook him.

**

His fever raged for three days, bringing delirious dreams. The specter of Parson Crane seemed to haunt him—he had taken that whole unpleasant matter deeply to heart. Daisy nursed him of course, and John dropped by several times a day. There were a number of visitors as well—Daisy was mindful of Edmund’s privacy, but pleased that so many passengers and crew expressed their concern for him, especially with the distractions going on above. Daisy understood there was quite a feast aboard the _Peerless_ , and when they moved on to dancing on their own ship, she could hear the music and thumps on the deck quite well.

Not everyone was in a dancing, feasting mood, however. Second Lieutenant White was transferred to the _Peerless_ , while a Lieutenant Benet—French by birth—came over to take his place on the _Dauntless_. Benet, the rumor went, had been overly fond of the admiral’s pretty daughter. And everyone knew White had been an unpleasant presence on the _Dauntless_ from the start. The captains jovially called it an ‘officer exchange,’ as if they were on an exotic holiday. And both men did as they were told, packing up all of their belongings and crossing the gangplanks from ship to ship.

Daisy took a deep breath as she felt the charm leave the ship in White’s possession. Was it wrong to inflict it on another ship? No more wrong than inflicting White himself on them, Daisy felt. She tended not to worry about those things anyway. The charm might cause mischief, or it might quiet back down. You never knew about that kind of thing.

She was not surprised when John popped in carrying a tray of food. “How is he?” he asked, taking over the duty of dabbing Edmund’s forehead with a cool cloth.

“I think he’s getting better,” Daisy judged, taking a break to eat. “He’ll be more lucid tomorrow, I think.”

“Bay,” Edmund suddenly said, quite clearly, grabbing John’s wrist and staring deeply into his eyes.

John was startled and dropped the cloth, unable to help responding to the clarity in his expression. But then it became cloudy again, and Edmund tossed his head from side to side.

“He does that sometimes,” Daisy explained nonchalantly, seeing that John was still affected by it. “He won’t remember later.”

“Oh,” John stammered, picking up the cloth again. “Of course. That’s progress, don’t you think?”

“Hard to say,” Daisy replied. She was only in the business of soothing _one_ person.

“You knew the charm was gone?” John continued, trying to be conversational. “Good plan.”

“Thank you.” Daisy watched him for a moment. “I’m going up on deck for some fresh air,” she declared, turning the chair over to John.

“Okay. Thanks,” he added with a ghost of a smile. He rarely had alone time with Edmund and always had to guard himself when the man was fully conscious. Now, perhaps, for a few minutes, anyway, he could look at his face as he really wanted to, in love and admiration and longing. He just hoped this indulgence wasn’t a dangerous one.

**

There was something wrong with the ship.

That was the sort of vague rumor that flew through the ship, one overheard and misunderstood comment to another, and the captain wasn’t exactly good at what later centuries would call ‘message control.’ Captain Anderson was an autocrat; his word was law and if he ordered men not to panic, he expected them to obey. He did not really have the common touch, though; his presence probably _would_ be comforting to the passengers massed in the hold—always the last to be told anything—if he ever deigned to go down there.

“You don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong with the ship?” Edmund asked Daisy again. They were sitting in the hammock, and she was shaving him; his own attempts at grooming with a razor had been too risky for her taste.

“No, nothing seriously wrong,” she reiterated, more concentrated on scraping the day’s hair growth off his chin. It was gingery and gave him a rakish look that she enjoyed, but such was not the fashion for a proper gentleman these days.

“Perhaps minorly wrong?” he proposed, when it was safe to speak.

Instead Daisy gave him a look. “I hope you don’t go around _telling_ people I said there was nothing wrong.”

“No, of course not,” Edmund promised. He understood the letter of Daisy’s wish for discretion, if not the spirit. “But surely it would be comforting to people, to know that everything was fine—“

He had to speak to Daisy’s back as she left the hammock to clean up. “Everything is _not_ fine, for most people,” she countered dispassionately. “They have fear, sorrow, pain. What’s a little more or less? I serve only _you_ , not the masses.”

Edmund tsked and pulled her gently back into his arms. He had become much more confident in his advances over the months at sea. “That is a very cold policy, Daisy,” he chided lightly, nuzzling her neck.

“One’s resources can be spread too thin, and thus do no one any good,” she noted. “An administrator should remember that.” He sighed at her words, not always pleased to be reminded of the job awaiting him. It seemed so big—such responsibility—and yet so small at the same time, his world narrowed to paperwork and meetings when clearly there was so much out there he didn’t know. Daisy turned in his arms and kissed him, not liking him to feel bad.

A clattering in the hall distracted her and a moment later the door was thumped on, and would have been yanked open if she hadn’t thought to latch it earlier. “Mr. Talbot, sir!” the steward Patrick cried, sounding slightly hysterical.

Edmund allowed Daisy to open the door as he finished dressing. “What is it, Patrick?” he asked with some irritation. Edmund’s instinctive reaction to panic was annoyance, a belief that things couldn’t possibly be as bad as the other person thought. Hysteria was distasteful to him.

“The frog—Lieutenant Benet—he’s got—“

“You oughtn’t refer to an officer in the Royal Navy by such a term, Patrick,” Edmund chastised, smoothing his hair in the mirror.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied automatically. “But he’s got an idea—to find out what’s wrong with the ship—“

“He’s putting it into practice now, on the deck?” Edmund surmised, cutting to the point. “Well, that should be interesting. Daisy?” He held out his hand, inviting her to join him, and she decided she would. “Tell me again, Patrick, why you think there’s anything wrong at all?” he requested confidently as they crossed to the stairs.

“We’re not going fast enough, sir,” Patrick explained fearfully. “The sails are straining but we aren’t moving. Might be the hull coming apart underwater!” He said this loudly enough that several other passengers on deck turned sharply in his direction, likely only catching part of his message, and he was then severely shushed by an officer.

Edmund had natural confidence in himself, and also in Daisy, and he positively strolled over to the knot of crew crowding around the captain. “I’ve heard the Lieutenant has a brilliant idea,” he announced leadingly.

Per usual Captain Anderson was obliged to put up with him. “Yes, Mr. Talbot,” he confirmed. “Lieutenant Benet is convinced we may be dragging some extra weight.”

“I’ve seen it happen before,” the man shrugged, modest but firm. “Some pile of debris, perhaps from a reef—it becomes like an anchor, weighing us down. If we scrape the bottom of the ship with a rope, we may dislodge it.”

“How are you going to do that?” Edmund asked, curious and mystified.

“You’ll soon see,” Benet promised. Daisy watched the proceedings with disinterest, as several crew members gathered at the bow of the ship with a rope held among them. At Lt. Benet’s direction they began to drop the middle of the rope over the prow of the ship, gradually lengthening it so it started to loop underneath the hull. It seemed a slow process, though, involving much securing and waiting, and most of the spectators, even Edmund, dropped away. Which was probably a relief to the men trying to work.

Hours passed. Edmund was scribbling in his journal when Patrick returned to the cabin door, even more agitated than before. “The rope’s caught on something!” he blurted.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Edmund checked. “That’s the point?”

Daisy, who was sitting on the hammock sewing up one of Edmund’s shirts, did not think Patrick was of a mind to be soothed. “What if he’s caught it on loose boards?” the steward worried, twisting his fingers together. “They keep pulling and pulling—what if he’s pulling the boards farther off? We’ll sink like a stone! We’ll all be drowned!”

During his impassioned speech Edmund and Daisy had been dressing to go out, Edmund infected by excitement if not fear. “I wonder what it will be?” he said to Daisy, ignoring the steward expertly. “Perhaps a whale skeleton? Those are quite large, it would be remarkable to see. I wonder if the Captain would let me keep one of the smaller bones as a souvenir?” Daisy feared he was perfectly serious, but she preferred that to the steward’s continued panicking—his predictions of drowning echoed behind them as they hurried up the stairs to the deck.

A crowd of passengers was already waiting, gathered worriedly at one side where the crew was tugging on a rope in the water. They looked like they were straining to land an enormous fish, so maybe Edmund wasn’t so far off with the whale. It was clear from their chatter that the other passengers shared Patrick’s pessimistic view of the situation, though.

With a mighty heave on the rope, something breached the surface of the water alongside the ship. “It’s made of wood!” someone shouted, and the ‘loose board’ theory seemed to be horrifyingly confirmed. Edmund glanced down at Daisy, who squeezed his arm reassuringly. Nothing was wrong, nothing had ever been wrong really—she didn’t blame people for being worried about unknowns, only for working themselves up based on nothing more than speculation.

Seeing that the continued suspense was only going to upset people more, and thus Edmund, Daisy stared hard at the churning patch of water and willed its contents to rise up, slightly out of sync with its actual buoyancy. Once it was above the surface for longer than an instant, people could see it was indeed a large wooden beam, but nothing you would imagine formed the hull of a ship—more like an interior timber. Reeling in the rope the sailors drew it near—it was clearly old, covered with barnacles and seaweed.

“It must be from an earlier wreck,” Lt. Benet judged. “We could have been dragging it around for weeks.”

“Nothing from our ship, then?” Edmund confirmed.

“No, I should say not,” the officer assured him. “Look at that joinery there, typical Spanish style.” He moved on to confer with the captain.

“Oh, I should go tell Patrick,” Edmund decided impulsively, darting away from Daisy. “He’ll be glad to know—“

Automatically Daisy scanned the area Edmund was about to charge into, only this time something there alarmed her. “Edmund, wait!” she called, hurrying after him, hampered by the crowd who did not part so easily for her. Below deck there was a storm, a swirl of terror, irrational and unpredictable, and she felt John on her heels.

“What is it—“ he tried to ask, but then they were downstairs, looking down the long corridor at Edmund, who threw open the door of his cabin.

“It’s alright, Patrick—“

There was a tremendous bang and the smell of sulfur in a puff of black smoke, and John projected himself ahead and grabbed Edmund before he could hit the deck. He wasn’t hurt; he’d fainted. Perhaps understandable when you’d just seen someone blow their head off in your own cabin. “Well, that’s a mess,” Daisy sighed, looking inside.

“Daisy!” John chided. He was kneeling over Edmund, checking his pulse and making sure he hadn’t been hit by any splinters. Deftly Daisy moved to shield him as footsteps pounded down the stairs, the already frazzled officers on high alert. She merely pointed into the cabin and let them see for themselves, as John occupied himself moving Edmund to an empty cabin.

After a few moments he came to, with them both leaning over him. “What—“ Then he remembered. “Oh.”

“You’re alright, aren’t you?” John asked, with perhaps too much warmth, and Daisy pinched him. He cleared his throat. “You didn’t hit your head?”

“No, no, I think not,” Edmund decided slowly. His gaze was far away, though. “Just—why would he do such a thing? It was alright, I was about to tell him—“

“Diseases of the mind,” John said, in a soothingly knowledgeable tone. “He would rather the quick end, than face drowning. He couldn’t think of anything else.”

There was a knock on the cabin door and Lt. Summers stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt. Mr. Watson?”

Who better to look at the mess and make an official pronouncement than the ship’s surgeon? John tried not to sigh as he nodded. “Maybe some brandy,” he suggested to Daisy. Hey, why not?

John left but Lt. Summers stayed where he was. “Alright, Mr. Talbot?” he checked.

Edmund tried to sit up, which was not so easy on a hammock, and he was still rather pale. “Yes, yes, fine,” he claimed unconvincingly. Daisy touched his arm and gave him a little shot of calm.

“What exactly happened, sir?”

Edmund blinked at the man. “You _know_ what happened,” he replied sharply.

“He took his own life?” Lt. Summers surmised. He didn’t sound surprised, more like he just didn’t want to assume, but the distinction was lost on Edmund at the moment. “Do you know why, sir?”

“He was afraid of drowning,” Daisy answered instead. “He thought a hole had been dredged in the ship.”

“Ah. Yes.” A lot of other people had thought that, but none so far had killed themselves. “Well, the Captain may want to ask about it later.”

“I suppose I’ll be here,” Edmund sighed, looking around the bare cabin.

Lt. Summers left, shutting the door behind him, and Daisy produced a glass of brandy for Edmund and encouraged him to lie back down, idly brushing her fingers through his hair. Normally she would have prevented him from seeing such a thing—let the steward take his own life somewhere else—but even she wasn’t quick enough sometimes, when emotions were turbulent and distracting. Edmund wouldn’t have gotten _hurt_ , though, she had safeguards in place against that sort of thing.

“Doesn’t it—a sailor afraid of drowning, that makes no sense,” Edmund finally said in frustration.

“Don’t try to make sense of it,” Daisy advised gently. Her fingers skated over his forehead and cheek, feeling their coolness. “He was afraid, so afraid that he acted rashly, without thinking. He panicked.”

“Could that—“ Edmund knocked back the rest of the brandy. “Could that happen to anyone?”

“Not to you, my love,” Daisy reassured him. “You can stay calm under pressure. That’s why you’ll be good at your job.”

Edmund grabbed her hand suddenly and brought it to his lips. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Daisy? After we get to Australia?” His gaze at her was deadly earnest and she felt warmth flood through her, even as she told herself it was just his emotional reaction to witnessing the suicide.

“Oh, you won’t want me to stay,” she claimed lightheartedly. “You’ll find yourself a lovely blond, perhaps a wealthy merchant’s daughter, and she’ll send me packing.”

“Never,” he avowed fiercely.

Daisy smiled gently. “I’ll stay as long as you need me,” she promised, and that seemed to satisfy him for the moment.

**

Mr. Benson was a notorious political agitator, who was traveling to Australia because England had become a little too hot for him. Edmund had kept a polite distance from him at first, though this was increasingly difficult in the cramped quarters of the ship. Then Mr. Benson had been injured in a fall during one of the storms, and lay swaying in his hammock quite in pain, his abdomen swelling as fluid built up. John tried to make him comfortable, but a ship’s surgeon at that time wouldn’t have known to do anything further.

Mr. Benson became engaged to Miss Clements, a no-nonsense tutor whom Edmund had gained some regard for—perhaps if Daisy hadn’t been there, and if Miss Clements had been of a more suitable social rank, Edmund might have pursued a relationship with her. Of course, who was to say if she would have reciprocated—she was giving up her tutoring career to marry and nurse a man who may not have long to live, or if he did, would always be a cripple, so perhaps being the wife of a wealthy administrator didn’t appeal to her.

In any event, that was how Edmund had been drawn into Mr. Benson’s orbit, finally. He was asked to be an official witness at the wedding ceremony, performed in Mr. Benson’s cabin; he was asked to take charge of some delicate paperwork, in case his estate contested the new Mrs. Benson’s right to his money; and he took to sitting at the man’s side, reading aloud to him. Daisy thought it was a healthy activity, which kept Edmund from brooding over his journal or else getting into trouble hopping around the ship.

“You’re _sure_ you can’t do anything for him, Daisy?” Edmund asked her, once again. The first couple of times she’d recognized the desire as good; but now it was getting annoying. “There’s no clause or addendum that could be made to your contract?”

“No,” she replied shortly, from where she was polishing his boots. “If it’s so important to you, try it yourself.”

Edmund rolled his eyes, still taking this as a dismissal. Daisy had been working on him lately, trying to explain his increasingly fantastic dreams as manifestations of his own power; but he was far from buying into it. She had to tread carefully, lest he think she had gone mad, or rather revealed the madness she had been concealing thus far. She felt he was softening towards it a bit, though, perhaps subconsciously—his eyes were starting to linger on John when he came to visit, then he would guiltily yank them away. She hadn’t yet mentioned anything about John to Edmund, just in case; so he must be in Edmund’s dreams.

“Well, I think you ought to make exceptions,” Edmund proclaimed crabbily, and left the cabin abruptly. He needed some fresh air to clear away his increasingly confused thoughts.

However, he encountered Miss Clements—pardon, Mrs. Benson—in the hall. “Good day, Mr. Talbot,” she greeted, with a touch of unusual agitation. “I wonder, have you seen Mr. Watson anywhere?”

Edmund hoped the lighting was too dim for her to note the flush this brought to his cheeks. “Um, no, no I haven’t,” he asserted, then calmed himself. “Is Mr. Benson poorly? I can look for the surgeon, if you like—“

“Or the steward might do,” she interrupted, half to herself. “It’s just that Mr. Benson’s position needs to be adjusted, he becomes so uncomfortable, and I can’t do it myself—“

Her obvious distress tugged at Edmund’s gallant instincts. “Perhaps I could assist,” he offered. Better than searching through the ship for John—Mr. Watson—perhaps meeting him in some dark, close space—

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose,” Mrs. Benson tried to insist, but Edmund was already striding towards the cabin. He wanted to help. It was such a simple thing, a humble thing, which could result in so much relief for a fellow human being, and it made Edmund feel _good_ to help. He wasn’t sure if he had ever really been much help to anyone in his life before coming on to this ship—a burden, if anything, helping only by spreading money around. But this was something good he could contribute, even if he lacked Daisy’s magical abilities. Or wasn’t sure how to harness them, rather, according to her.

Edmund opened the cabin door, manfully ignoring the smell. Despite the efforts of Mrs. Benson and the hired woman there was only so much to be done for a bedridden man. Er, hammock-ridden. “Good day, Mr. Benson!” Edmund declared cheerfully.

The man’s expression was sour. “Oh. You,” he replied, with the customary understatement Edmund had come to expect. Knowing the man better now, Edmund no longer found it rude. “What the devil do you want?”

“I understand you need some assistance—“

“Not from you!”

“I was just looking for the surgeon,” Mrs. Benson added, crowding in the doorway. “Perhaps if you’d just like to wait, and chat, while I fetch him—“

“Nonsense,” Edmund declared. They need not fear he found manual labor beneath him in the service of a fellow human being. Or that he was not up to the task. “Now I think you want to be adjusted this way, don’t you? So if I just apply pressure here—“

“Really, man, go away—“

“Mr. Talbot, actually if you would just—“

The ship lurched, as ships do. Daisy heard the howl easily from their cabin. Moments later Edmund hurtled in and shut the door behind him, leaning against it as if to keep out murderous hordes. Daisy glanced up at him curiously.

“I may have made things worse,” he confessed dejectedly.

“The ship moved,” Daisy soothed, drawing him in. “It could have happened to anyone.”

“Yes, but it happened to _me_ ,” Edmund lamented. “I mean, to poor Mr. Benson, who has already had much suffering.” He didn’t want to make it sound all about him. He laid his head on Daisy’s shoulder, feeling rather miserable.

“You were just trying to help,” she assured him, running her hand through his hair. “I’m sure they understand that.”

“Yes, I wanted to help, but I didn’t,” Edmund excoriated himself. “Bloody useless… What skills have I that are actually useful to people? Reading Latin. Well, that’s terribly helpful when someone is dying in pain.”

His tone was unusually bitter and with a little probing Daisy could feel the power churning inside him. “There are limits to what everyone can do,” she said, by way of distraction. “You’re not meant to be at a bed side, but rather in an office, with an important commission. You’ll use your talents there to help people.”

“Well it will be too late for Mr. Benson,” Edmund muttered.

**

The next day Daisy met John on deck. “And how is Mr. Benson today?” she inquired, as if she cared.

“Better, actually,” John reported. “The swelling’s gone down and he’s much more comfortable.”

“You think he’ll survive?”

John shrugged a little. “He’s certainly reversed course,” he hedged. “Why did you decide to help him?” Obviously she wanted him to ask.

Daisy gave him a cat-like smile. “I didn’t,” she claimed.

John blinked at her. “Well, _I_ didn’t,” he asserted, much as he might have liked to. “Did he get better on his own?” Daisy’s eyes slid to the other side of the ship, where Edmund was talking to Lt. Summers. When John grasped her meaning he turned away quickly, battling the hope that rose in his chest. “Are you _sure_?” he asked tightly.

“Could he have gotten better on his own?” Daisy posed. “Especially after being yanked on accidentally?”

John winced just remembering that, having come upon the scene not long after. He’d broken his own rule and eased Mr. Benson’s pain with his powers, for pity of him _and_ Edmund. But he hadn’t done anything else to help. “He remembers, then?” He strived for a neutral tone but his eyes drifted towards Edmund.

“No,” Daisy said firmly, and John snapped back around to her. Much safer to be seen whispering with a servant than staring at someone of importance. “I don’t think he even really believes me,” she went on. “But I planted the idea, and he really wanted to help Mr. Benson.”

John leaned on the railing, staring out at sea. “I had some awkward things happen when I was younger,” he reminisced with a smirk. “Something I really wanted just happening, or showing up. Never had to do with helping anyone, though,” he added dryly. More like a good-looking lad materializing in his bedroom. “I can’t imagine anything awkward ever happening to _you_ ,” he went on to Daisy, his mood lightening at concrete evidence that Magnus might soon return to them.

“I’m sure it did,” Daisy claimed, without providing any examples. “Though I can barely remember being young.” She too was gazing out at sea now, and perhaps back across the years, though as a rule she wasn’t given to nostalgia. For whatever reason, while Magnus and Bay appeared over and over again in different guises, living out their human lifespans, Daisy tended to linger far longer. Which was useful when she sought them out, but John sometimes thought it must be an impossibly lonely existence. Though Daisy didn’t seem to mind being alone.

Edmund joined them, his mood buoyant. “I understand Mr. Benson is better today,” he announced, relieved both for himself and the other man.

“Yes, the swelling’s gone down and he’s feeling better,” John repeated, trying to remain professional.

“Well, that’s wonderful. All due to your efforts, I’m sure, Mr. Watson,” Edmund asserted generously.

“I shouldn’t like to take credit,” John murmured, but their eyes had locked, a spark of something deep in Edmund’s blue eyes that John had seen before, that he craved to see again…

Daisy bumped Edmund, breaking their gaze that threatened to turn moony. “What good news,” she intoned. “Perhaps you can resume reading to him, he seemed to enjoy that.”

**

There was a problem with the mast. Daisy rolled her eyes when she heard this; did this ship have to pick up every single disaster that could possibly befall an ocean-going vessel? And that was _with_ her and John on board.

During a storm the main mast had cracked. It was still standing there, holding up the sails, but expert opinion was it couldn’t take much strain, so the main sails were bundled up and the ship was at the mercy of the rather choppy waves, instead of skimming over them powered by the wind. They could neither make for land early in South America nor reliably push on for Australia.

Of course, that wasn’t general knowledge; no, wouldn’t want anyone to panic. Edmund had found out because he was involuntarily appointed spokesman for the cabin passengers, charged with seeking out the officers and inquiring about what the problem was, in his persistent yet level-headed way. Well, level-headed compared to the other passengers.

And then once he knew, he was urged not to tell anyone their hopeless situation, because what good would it do? That was the moral dilemma he brought to Daisy.

She was knitting a woolen scarf for him—they were drifting south and it would be getting terribly cold soon. “I think Lt. Summers is right, there’s nothing good to come of telling anyone,” she replied simply.

Too simply for Edmund’s taste. “But then what’s to be _done_?” he persisted, as the ship lurched the way it continually lurched these days, worse than the lurching they had more or less gotten used to.

Daisy looked up at him with her preternatural calm. “If you could do anything at all, what would you do?” she posed.

“Fix the mast,” he stated. This was part of her little game, which felt increasingly less game-like as time went on.

“Obvious, not very subtle,” Daisy guided, knitting flawlessly. “One moment the mast is broken, the next it’s fine? That would certainly cause speculation, perhaps fear.”

Edmund rested his hand on the washstand to brace himself as he was pulled that way. Speaking hypothetically, she did have a point, and he searched for a more elegant solution. “Lt. Benet had an idea,” he remembered. He didn’t fully understand it himself. “The others seemed to think it wouldn’t work.” Daisy waited patiently. “I would have his idea be tried, and appear to work,” he decided.

Daisy’s nod seemed to confirm this as the better solution. “You wouldn’t be upset about him getting the credit?”

Edmund hadn’t even thought of that, honestly. “He should get the credit, because that would be much more natural than _my_ idea working,” he assessed. “The point is to save the ship, not be acclaimed as a hero… Isn’t it?” He faltered slightly at the end, unable to interpret Daisy’s gaze.

“I think you’re beginning to understand,” she finally said approvingly.

Edmund sighed and laid down on the hammock behind her. “What I really want,” he admitted, “is to be off this ship! Someplace dry, where the bed does not move…” He’d closed his eyes, but now they snapped open as he stopped feeling the hammock rock. He was treated to the disorienting sight of the hammock seemingly frozen in place while the rest of the cabin swayed.

“Be careful,” Daisy warned. “Suddenly appearing in Australia with the ship still at sea would be rather hard to explain.”

Edmund was still fascinated by the altered hammock. “Did I do this?” he asked with growing excitement.

Daisy smiled. “No, my love,” she assured him. “But I leave it up to you to fix the ship.”

Edmund lay back down on the blissfully still hammock. “Well… how?” He wasn’t saying he completely believed Daisy, but when someone could do what she could, he felt it was wiser to listen to them.

“Put your mind to it,” she advised. “Envision what you want to happen, and will it to be so.” Edmund made a noise to indicate that he didn’t find this as easy as she seemed to think.

Still, he gave it a try—couldn’t do any harm, could it? Lt. Benet had a solution—something about reinforcing the base of the mast with newly-forged metal. Others, like Lt. Summers, were afraid this might start a fire deep in the bowels of the ship, which would put them in an even worse situation than now. _Let the captain give Benet’s idea a try,_ he thought. _Let us get safely to our destination._ Maybe repetition would help?

There was a hearty knock on the cabin door and Edmund took a sharp breath, wondering if he’d fallen asleep. The length of Daisy’s knitted scarf had certainly increased. He sat up in the hammock—which was back to moving normally—and made sure he was decently attired. “Come in.”

It was Lt. Summers. “Captain’s going with Benet’s idea,” he reported, admirably neutral. “Do you want to watch, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” Edmund told him, hopping from the hammock. That could have just been the normal course of events, he thought—but the look Daisy gave him when he glanced back suggested otherwise.

**

The mast appeared to be holding and they were underway with direction once again, trying to correct their course which had taken too southerly a turn. Edmund had been asked by Lt. Summers to help stand watch in the nights, which pleased Edmund to no end—to be a genuine help to the ship, when he felt his novice weeks had been so troublesome, delighted him. With Daisy’s scarf warm around his neck he jaunted off to the upper deck, not even minding the midnight-to-four-AM shift.

That gave Daisy time to consult with John. “So does he remember or not?” John hissed at her in the darkness of the cabin.

“I don’t think it’s remembering, exactly,” Daisy replied, knowing this would frustrate him. “It’s more exercising his muscles. It’s no good him remembering right _now_ , anyway,” she added. “You’re not going to do anything while still aboard ship.” Their powers would be working overtime to avoid anyone else finding out.

“We could _talk_ ,” John insisted. “We could—we could _acknowledge_.” Being in such close quarters for weeks had been harder than he’d anticipated, with such a huge social gulf still dividing them.

Daisy trailed her fingers through the icy water sloshing into the cabin. “There’s another crisis coming,” she predicted.

“G-d, another one?” John sighed.

“We might be able to force Magnus out,” she continued. “It could take some work.”

“Just let me know,” John said, eager to help with that.

Daisy didn’t _have_ to let him know; it was readily apparent when the time came. A wall of ice looming up ahead—which Edmund had somehow seen even before the lookout—the passengers stuffed into the hold (they’d never been relocated from their cabins before), the crew straining to turn the ship aside and desperately hoping the mast would hold.

“Come on,” Daisy said to Edmund as soon as the crew had left them and the other passengers behind. He stared at her blankly, clutching his most important possession, his journal. “Let’s go.” She had to prod him a little to get him to leave the hold.

“What are you doing?” he whispered to her furtively.

“ _I’m_ not doing anything,” Daisy assured him. “ _You_ are going to save the ship.”

Edmund stopped in his tracks. “Daisy, this is preposterous—“

“Any time now would be good,” John encouraged them, popping out of the darkness.

Edmund looked between the two of them several times as the ship creaked and strained. “Mr. Watson, are you saying _you_ —“ Somehow it seemed very right that John should be part of this, as if that was a puzzle finally solved.

“No time,” Daisy insisted, taking Edmund’s journal. She dropped it into her bag, which should have been too small for it, and urged him up onto the deck.

“Won’t the captain—“ Edmund continued to protest.

“Won’t even know you’re there,” John promised rapidly.

On deck the wind was fierce, driving the ship towards the huge wall of ice looming up before them. One could almost pretend it was the white cliffs of Dover… though one didn’t want to run into _those_ either. Sailors strained to turn the sails away, harness the wind but in a different direction, to fight the pull towards the ice. The mast groaned ominously.

“All you have to do,” Daisy instructed optimistically, “is turn the ship aside from the ice.”

“Changing the wind might be good, too,” John added helpfully, “so we can get back on course.”

“But in a natural way,” Daisy cautioned.

“Oh, is that all?” Edmund replied, with some sarcasm. He looked between the two of them. “You’re rather serious about this, aren’t you?” he realized with sudden trepidation.

Daisy crossed her arms over her chest. “You’d better do something,” she warned. “I won’t be.”

“Me either,” John claimed, with more resolve than he felt.

Edmund was not one to shirk a challenge. A _doable_ challenge. A human-scale challenge. But they were asking the impossible! That an ordinary person should seek to impose his will over the world, over the very laws of nature—

“Hurry up,” Daisy encouraged, “or you’re going to get rather wet.”

Edmund was _already_ wet. He was tired of being wet, and cold, and confined to the tiny rough cabin on this stinking ship with bad food—He wanted to be warm and dry and steady and clean and _full_ , and the only way that was going to happen, apparently, was if he made this bloody ship _move away from the ice_ —

With a tremendous creak and a groan, the wind caught the sails at just the right angle, the angle Edmund wanted, and he turned them away from the wall of ice, like he’d turned the model ships he’d played with as a child. Something powerful shot through him, making him feel lighter, making the salt spray slow until he could see every drop of it, understand its molecular structure and the genomes of every microscopic organism in it. Understand what a genome even _was_.

He glanced at Captain Anderson, frozen in the act of shouting an order, and understood every moment of his life that had driven him to this point, the fights and the failures, the dreams and successes. Such tiny lives humans led, staggering blindly from one moment to the next, their joys and sorrows so intense yet so fleeting and very often, inconsequential to the rest of the universe. All the people huddled in the hold, terrified; the sailors thinking their luck had run out—with one breath he could save them all. Or send them down to the bottom of the sea.

“Magnus.” He turned at the sound of his name. Yes, Daisy and Bay were waiting. Such killjoys.

With a blink the ship snapped into motion again, turning parallel to the wall of ice, close enough that a life raft on its side was scraped off with a noise sure to terrify everyone waiting below. Well, no one was _perfect_.

Edmund staggered on the wet deck and Daisy and John quickly dragged him inside. “What just—Did I—“ he sputtered.

“You saved us!” John was beaming at him, his smile warming Edmund through. He’d seen it before somewhere, like another lifetime. “You saved the ship!” Impulsively he hugged Edmund close.

“Well done,” Daisy added, as Edmund tried to take the embrace manfully. She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “What do you remember?”

Everything was jumbled around in Edmund’s head, like he was trying to articulate a fading dream. “The ship was a toy, and everyone was so small, and Captain Anderson’s mother used to beat him with a wooden spoon, and then—then I thought about drowning everyone,” he added in horror.

Daisy and John did not seem put off by this. “Do you remember your real name?” Daisy asked him.

“You—you called me Magnus,” Edmund recalled, with uncertainty. “Is that—who I really am?”

“Yes,” Daisy replied.

“It’s complicated,” John said at the same time.

“Am I evil?” Edmund wanted to know. The idea horrified him but he intended to face it. “Was that why I wanted to drown everyone?”

“No,” John insisted, taking his arm.

“It’s complicated,” Daisy hedged.

John gave her a look. “You’re not evil,” he told Edmund firmly. “It was just a passing thought.”

“Come on,” Daisy suggested. “Let’s go back to the cabin. You could use a lie-down, I think.”

**

Land at last. Edmund climbed from the rowboat to the pier and for a moment felt disoriented, wobbling slightly. Then he realized he was doing it to himself, trying to compensate for the rolling motion of a ship, which was no longer necessary. He planted his feet firmly on the solid surface and grinned.

“Edmund,” Daisy prompted behind him.

“Oh, sorry.” He turned and helped her out of the boat. “Solid ground. Remarkable.”

“It’s what you wanted,” she reminded him, looping her arm through his. He didn’t so much as glance around to see what anyone else’s reaction was—though he did break away rather suddenly to help John with his bags.

“Got it? The trunk’ll be sent on,” John told him. “You’re staying at Government House?”

“Yes. You’ll be by?”

“Later today,” John promised, and they managed to make the exchange casual and ordinary somehow.

Edmund and Daisy took a carriage to Government House, where he was greeted with enthusiasm and she with a polite suspicion. Daisy was shown to a room in the servants’ quarters but soon found her way to Edmund’s room, where he was sprawled across the unmoving bed in bliss. Mischievously Daisy made the bed rock like a hammock and Edmund’s eyes popped open with something akin to panic, at which she laughed heartlessly.

“You!” Edmund grabbed her and tumbled her onto the bed, kissing her with a passion that had too long been confined to a tiny hammock.

“I think you’re going to need a bigger bed,” John said dryly from the doorway, but his smirk froze when Edmund looked up at him all too knowingly.

“This isn’t our final destination,” Daisy reminded them both, breaking the spell in time for two men to lug Edmund’s trunk in. “A proper official needs a proper house.”

“With servants,” John pointed out reluctantly. People who would intrude on their privacy.

“Perhaps we could conjure up Mrs. Hudson,” Daisy suggested, and John’s eyes widened.

“Of course! That would be perfect.”

“Who’s Mrs—Oh, maybe I know,” Edmund reversed, sounding rather uncertain.

“Never mind for now,” Daisy assured him. “I’ll unpack for you. Perhaps you’d like to have a bath?”

**

Edmund kept his promises and was loyal to his friends, even if Magnus had trouble with those concepts sometimes. He made a copy of his journal in full and mailed it off to his godfather, shuddering slightly at the thought of the voyage it would have; he would gladly leave the sailing to others for a while—for example, Lt. Summers, whom he recommended for captain of the _Dauntless_ once Captain Anderson decided to retire. Despite Summers’s low birth he’d been praised by his former captain _and_ Lt. Benet, who had originally been offered command but gallantly turned it down.

Daisy, reading in their private walled garden with a view of the sea, had frowned when he told her, though.

“You don’t think Summers will make a good captain?” he asked, worried his judgment might be off.

“He may not have the chance,” she replied cryptically, which was so typical, and frustrating. Edmund was learning more about his abilities and past adventures every day—disreputable as they often seemed—but he still didn’t have Daisy’s talent for seeing the future. Maybe he never would.

“Hello,” John said cheerfully, stepping into the garden. Edmund blushed slightly to see him, cursing his fair complexion and the giddy schoolboy nerves that still rose at the thought of the man who had moved into the house with them. He was aware of the relationship they’d had in the past and they had taken tentative steps towards a continuation of that; but such things were new to him… and also not… and society gave little useful advice on the subject, so Edmund often felt rather muddled when John was around.

Behind her book Daisy rolled her eyes, though fondly, at the two of them.

“So, Summers is going to be captain?” John went on, with only a bit of awkwardness. Mrs. Hudson bustled in with tea, giving him and Edmund something else to focus on. “He’ll be a good one, I think.”

“Daisy doesn’t think so,” Edmund tattled, hoping to pry some more information out of her.

“Oh?” asked John curiously, munching a biscuit.

She gave them both a slightly exasperated look. “I’m sure he would be fine,” she claimed.

“Would be?” John questioned, picking up on the odd verb choice. He knew she didn’t like being prodded, but such was the consequence of her little comments.

Daisy sighed and put her book down, reaching for the tea Edmund poured her. “You’ll just want to get involved,” she predicted, which did not take any supernatural powers to foresee.

Immediately Edmund was alert. “Involved in what?” he insisted. “Lord Thurston assured me he would make the appointment—“

“You don’t mean Summers will turn it down?” John guessed worriedly. “It’s always been his dream—“

“Sometimes the other officers won’t accept a captain of low birth—“ Edmund speculated.

“His father was a blacksmith,” John scoffed. He always chafed at Magnus’s aristocratic tendencies. “That’s perfectly respectable. He wasn’t fished out of prison or anything.”

“Unlike many of these colonists,” Edmund had to add.

Daisy let them debate, knowing that the longer they were distracted, the longer she could put off telling them what she really meant. They’d be upset no matter what.

As if sensing this, John suddenly stopped talking and gave her a hard look, then abruptly stood and hurried to the garden wall, which looked out over the harbor from a certain angle.

Edmund tracked his movements with concern. “John, what—“

“The ship’s on fire,” John announced, dropping his tea cup on the grass and taking off for the door.

“What—“ Edmund didn’t have time to look for himself but merely raced after him.

Daisy took another sip of her tea and finished the shortbread biscuit, then moved to the garden wall herself. The _Dauntless_ floated in the harbor, safely apart from other ships, black smoke belching from the hold. A crowd had gathered on the pier to watch, uncertain what was going on; she imagined the officers on nearby ships debating if they should get closer and try to help.

After several moments she saw John and Edmund burst through the crowd, flinging themselves into a rowboat. Lt. Benet’s idea to fix the mast had worked in that it got them to port safely; but as some, including Summers, had feared, it left a fire smoldering deep inside the ship, which had apparently now broken out.

John and Edmund didn’t understand the cause of the fire at this point, of course; ships were made of wood, they were vulnerable to flames, which were used frequently in these times. All they knew was that Summers was still aboard the ship.

As soon as the rowboat bumped the hull Edmund leaped for a rope hanging down and scrambled up it, awkward but determined, and John followed him into the flames. The deck was choked with smoke, flames dropping all around them as the sails and rigging disintegrated. “There’s no one on board but Summers!” John reported, glad they wouldn’t have to rescue anyone else.

“There!” Edmund pointed to the highest deck, the captain’s deck, where Summers was frantically trying to loosen the sail ropes. “Summers! Charles! Come on!”

Summers glanced down at them, his eyes haunted. “Get off! Jump!” he shouted back.

Edmund tried to reach him, John using his powers to help him dodge the fires. “Summers, come on! You’re the only one left!”

“Got to get the ship out of the harbor!” Summers replied. His movements were quick but deliberate; he wasn’t panicked. “Before the powder magazine blows—“

John took a quick peek through the smoke and saw the other ships in full sail, trying to move away from the _Dauntless_ as fast as they could—one spark from her could potentially ignite the whole fleet of merchant and navy vessels. Summers was going to be a hero and go down with the ship he’d newly been given charge of, John suddenly realized. He was going to save everyone else—unless Edmund managed to save him first.

“Edmund!” John shouted. “Let’s go!” Of course Edmund wasn’t listening to that advice; he was too busy plunging recklessly ahead, across weakened beams, through tangled ropes of fire, his still-nascent powers haphazardly clearing the way. “Edmund!” John connected with him mentally, sending him the full picture of the scene.

“Charles!” Edmund tried once more, but now he knew the gesture was futile, and he stopped his charge forward.

Right in time for a flaming chunk of wood to fall on him.

_Daisy is going to kill me_ , John thought absurdly, as he charged into Edmund and knocked him overboard into the water.

The flames were extinguished immediately and John swam away from the ship with one arm, dragging Edmund behind him. He pictured Daisy watching with intense disapproval from their garden and put a little unnatural effort into his movements, getting Edmund a safe distance away from the ship as it exploded with a noise like a thunderclap, bits of wood showering the sea around them. Finally they were near enough to land that someone could scoop them up and actually do a little helping—Edmund was out cold, his face and back starting to turn a sickening, wrinkled red. John surreptitiously turned the burns down a few notches, hoping no one would notice in the chaos.

Daisy met them at the optimistically-named hospital, a stony look on her face. John immediately felt guilty. “You know how he is,” he babbled. “Heedless of danger, charging in to rescue someone—“

All movement froze around them—doctors mid-step, the nurse-nuns mid-instruction, even a spilled tea cup mid-splash. This was definitely a no-no and John cringed slightly. “Second-degree burns!” Daisy proclaimed irately. “He could be scarred for life!”

“Well, he won’t be—“ John promised. He was planning a complete recovery for Edmund. And a quick one, too.

“Was it so difficult to prevent him being injured at all?” Daisy went on. “An umbrella, John, that’s all you needed—“

“Look, he’ll be fine,” John insisted, trying to assert himself more. The frozen time made him very uncomfortable. “It’s just a minor bump in the road. He’ll get over it. And it looked very heroic as well.” He couldn’t help adding the last part, even though Daisy was not impressed by such things.

Regardless, she let time move forward again, to John’s relief. “Honestly. You could have stopped him.”

“Oh, there’s no stopping him,” John noted, making sure the surgeons weren’t making Edmund worse. “I suppose Summers didn’t make it…?” Daisy gave him a look. “No,” he concluded. “Well, very heroic of him, too.”

“Hooray for heroes,” Daisy intoned, sounding less than thrilled.

**

Only a month into his new job and he was already taking a vacation, to recuperate from his injuries—fortunately the manner in which they were obtained impressed his superiors, and between Mrs. Hudson, John, and Daisy Edmund had more than sufficient care at home. Summers’s death distressed him, though—all that wasted potential.

“You wouldn’t even have seen him again,” Daisy predicted, bathing him in the cool of the evening. “Not for years anyway. He would have been at sea.”

“At least I would have known he was out there, doing what he was good at,” Edmund tried to explain. John told him that Daisy had been around so long, ordinary human lives meant little to her now; it was no use appealing to her emotions regarding other people, she would choose to be isolated from them if she could. But Edmund tried to explain anyway, just as John tried to explain to _him_ why they couldn’t have put out the fire or saved Summers or _something_ other than what happened.

“What’s the use of having this power if we can’t help our friends?” Edmund had asked in frustration. John and Daisy didn’t seem to find that sufficient reason to interfere with the normal course of events; as he rested at home Edmund realized there were many points of philosophy on which the three of them usually differed, though to be honest Magnus’s motivations were usually less noble than they were in this case. All the more reason to continue exercising his abilities, so he didn’t have to rely on them and their opinions.

“Letter arrived for you,” John announced, popping into the room. He sat down on a footstool near the tub and Edmund managed to stay relaxed, feeling more confident in his relationship with the other man now. He felt John noticed and appreciated it.

“Open it for me,” Edmund requested, indicating his damp surroundings. He noticed the tips of John’s ears turning slightly pink as Edmund’s nudity was brought to mind, and was pleased he remained unflushed himself. Progress.

John cleared his throat and opened the letter. “It’s from England, your aunt Charlotte,” he reported, skimming through it.

“She does go on,” Edmund judged. “Just hit the highlights.” He leaned back and closed his eyes as Daisy dripped warm water down his chest.

“Crops are middling,” John began, squinting at her spidery handwriting. “The red spaniel had puppies. Your cousin Elvira is getting married—do people actually name their children Elvira?”

“El- _veer_ -uh,” Edmund said, correcting his pronunciation, which had made the name sound rather viperish. “Who’s she marrying?”

Aunt Charlotte _did_ go on, John agreed as he parsed the letter. “An artist—can’t quite read it—surname Moore?”

“Calvin Moore,” Edmund remembered, unimpressed. “Godfather will never let her, he despises artists.”

“Oh. Hmm,” John remarked suddenly.

“What?”

“Bad news,” Daisy warned.

“Why wouldn’t you _start_ with this?” John asked rhetorically, annoyed at Aunt Charlotte for making him convey it.

“ _What?_ ”

“Your godfather’s passed away, Edmund,” John finally told him. “I’m sorry.” Both he and Daisy held their breath to see how he’d react.

Edmund’s eyes popped open, and he drew in a breath, then let it out. A million pictures flashed through his mind, of the time he’d spent with his godfather, the pride the old man had taken in him, the opportunities he’d provided. He _was_ an old man, though, wasn’t he? He could have been Edmund’s grandfather. So his eventual death shouldn’t be a surprise.

“How did he die?” he wanted to know.

“A short illness,” John reported, glancing at the letter.

That seemed peaceful enough, Edmund decided. “That’s too bad,” he sighed. “I think he would really have enjoyed reading my journal about the voyage.” It wasn’t due to arrive in England for several more weeks. He realized he’d been looking forward to the eventual letter of commentary about it—pragmatic, insightful, cynical with a surprising dry humor scattered throughout that Edmund would finally be able to understand. “I may have written some things in my journal that were somewhat… intemperate,” he added. “I’m sure Godfather would have appreciated them, though…”

John looked slightly nervous all of a sudden. “Oh? Ought we to get it back, then?” he suggested quickly.

“No need,” Edmund assured him. Because the wrapped package was sitting securely on the table in front of them.

John gave a satisfyingly astonished reaction; Daisy was always harder to impress, but the trick made her smile and run a hand through his air. “You did that?” John asked with a grin, and Edmund shrugged with false modesty.

“What’s on the ship instead?” Daisy prodded, but he’d already thought of that.

“A package of similar size to my godfather, containing a scholarly work on the unusual crustaceans of the southern waters,” Edmund reported. “And an innocuous letter with a much-abbreviated tale of my journey.”

“Very impressive,” Daisy allowed.

“I should say so!” John agreed.

“If you can do that,” Daisy added teasingly, “you can probably give yourself a bath from now on.” She dropped the washcloth in the water with a splash.

“Or perhaps I could get Bay to help me,” Magnus replied invitingly, giving the other man a bold look. He was pleased to see that this time, Bay’s whole face flushed. Magnus liked the color on him.


End file.
